Virgin Eyes
by Brunette
Summary: I can see you bein' old and regrettin' never doin' nothing over doin' something worth remembering. The rich girl newsie story you always hoped would be written.
1. Sometimes When I'm All Alone

_Author's Note: This makes for a beautiful secret, eh? I've been writing this, waiting until something else got finished to publish the first few chapters and keep writing. For me, this is a first. A definite first. You see, in all my fanfiction ... ing, I've never done a series between "my character" and the canon. Never. Usually, as a story hits me, I change the character to suit the story. But now I'm doing an actual series, because I've always admired authors who can find a character they like and stick with him/her. So, at least for this series, and Skittery, here's mine. I figured trying to do a series with David would be tough, considering the different characters he's already had -- Hellie, Evangeline, Allie, Rubix, Ice, Moseph,(another one that I can't name here), and so on. So, I thought, I'll do a Skittery series. A het Skittery series. Because all the really good romance about him (okay, not all, but a lot of it) is slash, and I think it's time for a different twist. _

_Disclaimer: I don't own _Newsies_. I don't own Skittery. I'm sure there'll be more in here I don't own; historical people and whatnot. Hey, I actually own a character! I mean, one that you'll see more than once! Oh, the chapter titles, are from Bebo Norman's song, "Drifting." He's a Christian singer (God, forgive me, I'm taking the lyrics out of context), and I just found the lyrics so creative, and beautiful. So here we are._

* * *

_Sometimes, When I'm All Alone_

Ursula Wellington didn't believe in love. She didn't believe in it because she'd never seen it manifested, and therefore figured that in reality, it probably didn't exist. Oh, she'd been to weddings, and anniversaries, and a good many other celebrations of the joys of romance, but she had decided that these were simply reflections of people trying to attain a fairytale. Love, she decided, had been invented by Shakespeare.

She never believed this theory more fervently than at a funeral. Today she was at the funeral of Cornelius Gwynne Vanderbilt, Sr., and she was doing exactly as she was instructed to do; her piano-player's fingers enclosed in black lace gloves were entwined with the fingers of the weeping Elsie French, who was forcing tears with all the strength of her being.

As it was, Ursula didn't much care for Elsie, but it was important to put on a show for the sake of her father's business investments. Everybody knew Alfie, the second Vanderbilt, was going to propose, and ever since Cornelius, Jr. had married that dreadful Wilson girl ... well, Alfie was the next in line to the Vanderbilt fortune.

Ursula, to stay consistent, didn't believe that Aflie and Elsie were in love, either. They didn't love each other any more than Ursula loved the deceased Cornelius, Sr., despite her own soft, lady-like sobs. Everyone was supposed to be in a shock and knee-deep in tears because Cornelius Gwynne Vanderbilt, Sr. had suddenly died of a hemorrhage in his brain, and so young -- fifty-six, not a far cry over her own father's years. It was enough to make the wealthy mourners nervous, at least. But their sorrows were not for the railroad tycoon. They were in premature mourning for themselves.

And that was why Ursula didn't believe in love. Because the divorce rate was skyrocketing to five percent. Because businessmen shamelessly kept mistresses well-housed and well-clothed on Fifth Avenue. Because nobody was really thinking about Cornelius Vanderbilt at his own funeral. Because her parents had named her Ursula Mildred Drusilla. Because Elsie was sniffing out the Vanderbilt fortune. Because Alfie had made more than one pass at her since they had met.

But Alfie made passes at everyone. He was an attractive dandy and knew it; he reeked of gentlemanly charm and a woman couldn't help but adore him for it. Despite himself, he had a genuine reverence for chivalry, and his manners came from his heart. He was never mechanical in his airs like those boys that had had to learn the disciplines of opening doors and standing when a lady left the table. A female simply couldn't allow herself the audacity of denying her affections for him. Ursula believed in affections, and she did have affections for Alfie because she was a lady and he was Alfie Vanderbilt. Her mother said all of feminine society wept when Elsie snagged him.

Ursula hadn't wept. She'd shrugged her shoulders and agreed that they were a lovely couple, and started warming up to Elsie because her mother wanted her as a bridesmaid in the wedding. Because it was a big deal to mothers like Ursula's to have their daughters as bridesmaids in a _Vanderbilt_ wedding, oh dear, can you _imagine?_ And Ursula had been there right along with them, oohing and ahhing at the very thought of the elaborations of the day, when it would come. And all of the sweet, prim old hens sitting around tea would chuckle quietly and might even crack a half-hearted joke, Well who will you marry now, Ursula? As if there had ever been the hope of a romance between her and that charming Alfie.

Ursula would chatter along with them, and later her mother would tell her how impressed her lady friends were with her poised, mature daughter. And that made Ursula sure of things ... for a while. She knew who she was supposed to be, and she could even enjoy herself while doing it. She could chat and sip tea and attend parties and warm up to Vanderbilt fiances in order to become a bridesmaid. And yet ... while her obedience was simple and recieved praise, she would find herself at times wondering if this was truly the life that would always make her happy. If praise produced only a temporary certainty, then what would she do when her glory faded and she was married and no longer the pet of society's ladies? What would she do when she had children that didn't really need her because she would, of course, have a well-trained nanny? What would become of her when her husband separated from her completely into the world of men and politics, and left her to the company of ladies and tea?

She knew she could please the crowd; she would be pleasing the crowd when she married, and when she had children at the age they told her she should. She was very good at doing what was expected of her, but ... when the crowd dwindled and surrounded a fresher face, where would her happiness come from? She would be the coolly beautiful form they had hoped she would be: never flustered and never shaken, calm to the very end. But then ... then they would forget about her and lose interest, and she would be quite alone. She would subdue her loneliness, of course, but it would still linger inside of her. No one would have any interest in her, and then ... Then maybe she'd start reading those pathetic dime romances, and she'd start believing in love. And then she'd try and make herself believe that she was and always had been in love with her husband, and the children she'd given ghastly names because some old society woman had hoped against hope there would be another one of her, and Ursula's mother had advised it.

"Oh, dear, Ursula, I feel faint."

The tiny whisper made Ursula's spine tingle, and she glanced at Elsie in surprise. Elsie's wide green eyes prompted her almost too obviously.

"Where are your smelling salts?" Ursula asked, not quite catching her companion's ulterior motive.

"I forgot them. Please, Ursula, lead me outside for some fresh air."

She nodded quickly, taking Elsie by the arm gently and scurrying nonchalantly out of the church. Nobody paid them any mind, and those that did simply commented approvingly on the girls' ladylike weakness.

They stepped out into the cool September air. Elsie took a deep breath, grinning at Ursula mischeviously.

"God, I was dying in there."

Ursula laughed because Elsie wanted her to. "Goodness, Elsie, you're outside of a church!"

Elsie covered her mouth with an innocent guiltiness, her gaze dancing playfully. She crossed herself quickly, bursting into laughter. Ursula's brow furrowed in amazement.

"Where'd you learn that?"

Elsie bit her lip cautiously, looking about her in case of listening ears. "This Irish boy in the Lower East Side." She squealed, a gleeful expression consuming her. Ursula's large brown eyes widened at the scandal, jerking Elsie's arm.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Elsie hushed her quickly, her eyes darting about the street. She seemed to catch something out of the corner of her gaze, but didn't state anything on it at the moment. She looked back to Ursula.

"Haven't you ever ... wondered about these street people before?"

"Elsie - "

"Well I have. Men are always talking about how drunken Irishmen are, and how untrustworthy Italians are with women, and oh, Ursula! I want to meet an Italian!"

Ursula worked her bottom lip with her teeth, looking away from Elsie momentarily. Her friend nudged her impatiently.

"So are you going to go running to Alfie, or can I trust you?"

Ursula nodded slowly, shrugging stiffly. "Of course you can trust me, Elsie."

Suddenly Elsie's long, slender arms were wrapped around Ursula's equally narrow shoulders. They both fulfilled their society's call for conformity.

"I knew you weren't such a prude underneath it all, Ursula."

Ursula swallowed uneasily. She wasn't entirely sure what she was supposed to do. But she knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to go to the Lower East Side and meet an Irish boy, too, and learn how to cross herself, and carry on scandalously, and show that Ellen - oh, right, _Elsie_ - French that she wasn't a prude at all.


	2. I Feel Like I Can't Take Another Breath

_Author's Note: Something I forgot last chapter --- pretty much everyone except for Ursula were real people. "Alfie" was a real person -- Alfred Gwynne Vanderbilt, who was known for being a ladies' man. I don't want to tell much else, seeing as how his whole story will be told through gossip, conversations, etc. But I'm basing his personality, as much as I can, on what I've read about him. I tried to find a famous, rich man who died in 1899, so that he'd be a headliner -- and, lo and behold, the great Cornelius Vanderbilt, Sr. died of a brain hemorrage. "Elsie" is Ellen French, Alfred Vanderbilt's _first _wife. Thought I'd let ya'll know, they're not my creations. _

* * *

_I Feel Like I Can't Take Another Breath_

LaFayette Hardy didn't believe in much of anything.

Maybe, if he spent time thinking about the meaning of life, and trying to answer other questions that plagued his world, he would have found something to believe in. But he was seventeen -- a month and a half from his eighteenth birthday -- and his principle concern was getting through each day seperately without being picked up by the police. Chances were, if he had taken the time to think about philosophy, he would have gotten bored too quickly. He had enough to worry about with a name like LaFayette.

Not that anybody called him that. From the time he was about ten years old, he had been slung with the nickname Skittery. His father came up with it. Skittery didn't think back to that too often, either. That was the past -- seven years ago. Back before the confusion of puberty and his father's boot to his ass. In retrospect, it made sense -- his father kicking him out. But he didn't think in retrospect, and neither forgave nor grudged the man who had donated the insignificant little sperm that began his insignificant little life. If Skittery spent time thinking about all the pathetic inadequacies that played into his life, he would probably be depressed.

All of his friends would. They were all playing in the same graveyard. They couldn't think about it, or they'd wind up like Pistol from Queens. The name sent a shiver up the spine. Poor mook was found dead in his bunk with his shirt tight around his neck. Pistol philosophized. He thought too much about their shame as orphans, runaways, meer newsboys. How they'd never amount to anything, and no one would remember their names. And once you thought that, even for a second, you were always thinking that ... and the next thing you knew, you'd tied your shirt around your neck and your friends found you late in the afternoon -- gray skin and cloudy eyes and swollen tongue and crap stinking in your pants.

Skittery believed in death, and money, and keeping alive, at least for today. And he believed, if he was alive, he might as well be doing as much as he can before the end. He didn't think about the end much, but in the back of his mind was the subconscious drive that kept him trying reckless, ruthless things. He was a teenager, and while death was very real to him (if nothing else, it sold his papers), he had another subconscious voice that told him he was going to live forever.

That morning, Skittery was grinning, a cigarette between his teeth. His brown eyes danced towards the shorter boy beside him. The deeper brown eyes looked up, and shared his expression.

"First we win the strike; now we got this. It's gonna be a good day, Race."

Racetrack chuckled happily and slapped the printed picture with the back of his hand. His mouth exaggerated a kiss at the somber visage staring from the thin paper.

"Thank ya, thank ya so much, Mr. Vanderbilt!"

Skittery laughed. "Quiet down, Race, the guy died."

His Italian friend shrugged. "Well it's nice to know he's leavin' some 'a his millions to me. Good doin's, Vanderbilt. You're sellin' my papes."

Skittery blew out a trail of smoke. "How great is this? He died of a brain hemorrage. Talk about two words that sell."

"Not to mention," Racetrack added, " 'death' and 'Vanderbilt.' This couldn't get any better if his best train crashed on the day 'a the funeral."

His friend snorted. "Says here that's today. Makes for another story tomorrow."

Racetrack let out a long whistle, and started folding up the paper. "We're gonna hafta buy this guy a rose or somethin' -- send to his grave. I'm gonna owe this poor, dead croak breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the next week and a half."

Skittery laughed, shaking his head. "They're on top even when they're six feet under."

His friend looked at him a moment, impressed. "That was good there, Skits. Very ... whaddya call ... deep. Ha! Get it? He's six feet under. It's deep. God, I'm good."

Skittery snorted, his tone deadpan. "You're the best."

"I'm the best," Racetrack agreed readily. "So let's hit these streets."

LaFayette Hardy cracked his back, throwing his cigarette to his ground. He snuffed it out with the toe of his shoe, and scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully. No matter how late he was up, mornings made him groggy, and he let out a yawn.

"What are we, now? Newsies or whores?"

Racetrack started off at his Boston terrier gait. "You tell me. You's the one who'd know the difference."

Skittery shot him a look. "Don't get started today, Race."

He shook his head. "Right, right. By the way, how much did Rosy end up costin' ya?"

Skittery swallowed hard, turning a harsh, snapping gaze to his friend. His fingers curled into fists, and he almost put up his dukes, but Race's snide, laughing visage stopped him. Race's expression could stop a train -- or sending it soaring into him with the momentum of an angry, confused Delancey. Whatever the reaction, a person couldn't help but either love or hate Racetrack. There was no in between.

"More than your mother did."

A hard little fist collided with Skittery's chest, but it was in good humor, and brought a smile to both of their faces.

"Ah'right, ah'right. So how 'bout these papes? I ain't wastin' this day."

Racetrack laughed a little, and his eyes glinted mischeviously.

"So how many 'a Vanderbilt's sick old friends would want a copy of his obituary to frame in their office?"

Skittery laughed. "I'm bettin' all of 'em."

They grinned. "Let's go to the church."


	3. Some Say Home Is Where the Heart Is

* * *

_Some Say Home Is Where the Heart Is_

Ursula caught them, from across the street, making their way towards the church out of the corner of her eye. She couldn't tell much about them, except that they were apparently homeless and recognized that she and Elsie were quite mobilized in the opposite economic direction. Her mind procured a dozen good reasons to hurry her friend back into the church -- many involving stories spun by her mother as to why she should never release her hand when strolling up 5th Avenue: "you could be kidnapped by Gypsies or street people, and taken far away and kept away from your father and I, and never see us again." Cautiously, she touched Elsie's arm.

"Let's go back inside. They'll be missing us."

Elsie laughed out loud, her eyes dancing -- and gleaming with the sight of something desireable. Ursula knew that look well, and was set ill at ease.

" 'Missing us'? Goodness, Ursula, if I hadn't the tact, I'd daresay you're a little self-important."

Ursula's eyes narrowed. "_If_ you 'hadn't the tact'?"

Elsie smiled, dismissing her friend's insulted gaze with a breezy laugh. "Well it's not as if they're all in there counting the seconds since we left. It's Mr. Vanderbilt's funeral, after all."

"Elsie," Ursula whispered sternly, "There are a pair of street-types coming towards us, and I don't want to find out what they want. Please, let's go back into the church."

She watched the dazzling green eyes flick in the direction of the boys and return back to hers, split-second. "Yes, I noticed. Paper boys. Do the dangerous newsies frighten you?"

Ursula wanted to meet her companion's patronizing with an edged, witty remark, but she didn't have the kind of mind that "quipped" very well, under usual circumstances. She was too well-trained to keeping her comments civilly under her tongue. A minute ago, she had been wanting to prove to Elsie that she was not a "prude"; now she'd be happy to harbor the term in scarlet lettering across her forehead if it meant she would again be inside the church, left alone to her own thoughts as the mourners cried for themselves.

"Extry, extry! Read all about it! Cor-NE-li-US Gwynn Vander-BILT's funeral today!"

Ursula's head jerked to the mismatched pair on the street corner across the lawn of the church. She watched a middle-class woman cross the street and take a paper -- watched her hesitate, and give the second boy a penny as well. What a pair of cons. They paused a moment, then began for the girls again. Ursula shot Elsie another look, but she was digging out a penny from her purse. She looked up, brow furrowing irritably.

"Get a penny, Ursula!"

She shook her head. "What's that going to look like, Elsie? Walking out of the church in tears and walking back in reading the paper!"

Elsie rolled her eyes. "Keep it under your coat. Goodness."

"Afternoon, ladies."

The voice made Ursula jump, and she drew back a step, uncertain despite Elsie's ease and confidence. She wondered remotely what her mother would have done with her, if she had been born a rebellious type like Elsie. But she didn't have time to consider her mother's solution to the Elsies of society; she needed to be on alert, to keep her friend from doing anything that might endanger her later on.

"Wanna buy a pape? We got the _World_."

The boy who was talking was diminutive. Had he not been talking, Ursula would have immediately assumed him an immigrant. Most of the Europeans clogging the streets barely reached five foot; small, malnourished people with hardy hopes and dreams. This boy was small with deep, dark eyes and thick black hair, greased down to whatever exent it would be allowed to be greased. His skin was olive-colored, and Ursula decided he was Italian (that ought to make Elsie happy) -- or of Italian descent, because he had no trace of Old World brogue in his speech pattern. He was pure gritty, bad-grammared, cheap alleyway-New York. His fingers were stained with ink, but his teeth were clean, which surprised her when he grinned and unfolded a paper before them, showing off the headline.

The other boy was taller, leaner. He looked like an American to her -- as much as a street person could look like an American. He had light-colored hair that, she noticed, was also greased back -- perhaps to hide how much it was in need of cutting. He smiled a lot, trying to sell -- gain some affection so that, when his friend sold a paper, he might get a penny for his effort, as well. Wide, light brown eyes with a very un-Anglo nose in-between. He was silent. Ursula didn't like that. She couldn't tell what his part was in this scheme between he and his friend. Assuming there was a scheme. Which, she assumed, there had to be. These were street people, after all.

The quiet one was keeping his eyes on Elsie. Ursula liked that. Their gazes unnerved her. She wished Elsie would hand over her penny and leave.

"The _World_?" Elsie repeated quaintly."I think Mr. Pulitzer is in the church right now."

The talkative one snorted. "Nice 'a him to pay his respects."

Elsie laughed. "Now this is quite odd. Ursula, these two work for Mr. Pulitzer, and he's right inside those doors. It's almost ... a paradox, or something."

"It's not a paradox," Ursula corrected icily. Elsie shrugged good-naturedly, looking at the boys as she repeated:

" 'Or something.'"

The talkative one chuckled, his eyes fastened now on Elsie. His mind seemed to be working over the image of her in his mind. As if he knew something about her, but couldn't quite place it.

"Hey, if you don't mind my askin'," he started, oh-so-eloquently, "what's yah name?"

Elsie was loving this. "Ellen French. I go by Elsie."

Now those deep, dark eyes lit up and a genuine grin spread across his face. "Well I knew I'd seen ya! You was at that gatherin' down by the docks ... Talkin' to my buddy Jack, I remember. Hey, whaddya do?"

"Quite well," Elsie returned in a mocking of proper English. She smiled, content with her celebrity. "Oh, I remember you as well. Racetrack Higgins."

"That's the one," he said jovially.

Ursula could see this conversation was not going to end any time soon.

"You let me beat you in poker," Elsie continued, a sly glint in her eye. Her companion's own eyes widened horrifically.

"Elsie!" she hissed, jerking her head towards the door.

"Say," Racetrack continued, not even acknowledging Ursula's obvious desire to esape, "why didn't you bring this one with you?"

Now they were all laughing -- all except for Ursula. It took her a moment to realize the joke was about her. She glared at Elsie. The other two were below her concern.

"Isn't it obvious why not?" Elsie retorted, ignoring her friend's prodding. Racetrack shook his head, grinning.

"I don't know, Elsie -- I wouldn't mind seeing her around next time."

Ursula's blazing eyes turned daringly towards the laughing little paper boy, but he was hardly intimidated by her insulted glare. She figured he must recieve them all the time.

"I beg your pardon?"

Racetrack snorted. "She'd be a hoot."

That was about enough of this. Ursula took a firm hold on Elsie's arm. "We're going inside now. Get your paper and let's be on."

Now Elsie laughed, never caring whether she was inducing insult or not. That was Elsie. She never thought; she never considered anything. Even that glittering ring on her left hand was a decision made in a moment's time. Had Alfie been a ... for God's sakes, a _newsie_, she would've said yes. Her impulse was going to kill her, someday.

"If it upsets you so, go inside," Elsie dismissed, turning back to the street boy. "Now, I don't remember meeting this one."

She met the taller boy's eyes, and Racetrack straightened himself with a mocking of proper manners -- of Ursula's world.

"Ah, forgive me, Miss French. This here's Skittery. A good guy -- dumb as a post, and depressed over it, too."

Skittery (good _Lord _...) smacked his friend on the arm and threatened him with a playful set of dukes that made Racetrack laugh out loud.

_"Elsie,"_ Ursula hissed.

"Jeeze," Racetrack murmured, "don't mean to take you's away from the fun ya're havin' at the funeral ..."

Elsie laughed; Ursula decided that she was acting like a common bar wench -- not that Ursula was particularly familiar with the way in which a common bar wench conducted herself.

"Yes," the blonde quieted herself. "Even so, we really should be going --"

"Do we get to know her name?"

The tall one (because Ursula refused to refer to anyone as "Skittery") was the one who asked, and she didn't even know why. Since they'd approached the pair, his eyes had been on Elsie, and with due reason. Elsie was the smiling, glittering, spotlight; Elsie was the one who was wanting to be within ten feet of them in the first place.

Elsie was prodding her friend with gleaming green eyes.

"Come now, Ursula, where are your manners?"

She hated how much the girl could sound like her mother without even trying.

"Ursula Wellington."

Racetrack laughed, and she hardly appreciated it.

"Gracious me," he commented, "if that was my name, I'd be uptight, too."


	4. Tell Me Where My Heart Is

* * *

_Tell Me Where My Heart Is_

"Did I not tell you that church was a good idea?" Racetrack gloated happily, jingling the change in his pocket.

"You did," Skittery obliged, scratching his head for no apparent reason. "How 'bout the red in the tight black dress, huh?"

His friend snickered in agreement. "That dress had to be at least three sizes too small for her."

"She looked like frickin' Vaudeville," Skittery added with a smile. "And I wasn't opposed."

Racetrack laughed aloud, scooping out all the coins he was toying with and glancing them over as they lay in his palm. "Let's go to Tibby's."

Skittery shrugged. "Sure."

"Hey," his shorter companion added after a moment, "whaddya think 'a Jack's girl?"

They were nearing Tibby's now; Skittery watched Blink and Mush walk in, laughing about some damn thing. He glanced at Race.

"I think she was tryin' too hard to be chummy. She'd annoy the hell outta me. Jack puts up with some real pain in the asses."

Racetrack shrugged. "Ah'right, but she was pretty, huh?"

"Almost as pretty as that rock on her hand," Skittery retorted dryly, opening up the door to Tibby's. Racetrack stepped in, despite the fact that the door had not been intended to be opened for him. Skittery sighed and walked in behind him.

"Gracious me, that was a hell of a stone, huh?" the aspiring bookie agreed, waving across the room at Jack and a few of the others. Through a wide, gritted smile he murmured, "Ya think he has any idea?"

Skittery glanced at the grin on Jack Kelly's face as he sunk back into his chair with the satisfaction of the others' laughter. He shrugged stiffly, irritated by the slick streetwise without even entering his presence yet.

"Ya think he cares?"

Race yelled across the room. "Whaddya do, fellas?" then lowered his voice without moving his lips: "Good point."

"Whaddya standin' over there for? Come get some grub!" Kid Blink shouted back, shoving Mush out of the booth to go grab some chairs. Skittery started to cross the room first. He grabbed one of the chairs from Mush's arm and sat down, grabbing one of Bumlets's greasy chips off the oily plate of fish-and-chips.

"Hey! Getcha grimy fingers off!" his friend reprimended good-humoredly, stuffing a whole sardine in his mouth between two ink-stained digits. Skittery ignored him and went for another.

"I only really like the chips," he told him absently. Race sat down and waited for Mush to regain his seat.

"Hey, Jack, we saw yah girl today."

Cowboy took a bite of his corn beef sandwich and let the grease slide down his chin before retorting with his mouth full:

"Which one?"

Skittery gave him a stoney look. Racetrack wasn't even phased.

"The rich one you took to the docks. Elsie somethin'."

Jack was interested. He swallowed and drug his sleeve across his mouth. "Yeah?"

Mush leaned forward. "The blonde one who talked all proper?"

Jack nodded. Blink whistled. "Dear me, what a looker."

Skittery didn't have to look up to know that Jack Kelly was smirking with delight. Racetrack continued:

"Yeah, she was at that there Vanderbilt's funeral. Had this friend with her. Some gad-awful name ... what was it, Skitts?"

Skittery shrugged, grabbing a handful of chips off Bumlets's plate. "Er-somethin'. Sounded like Earl."

"Cripes," Blink commented, "Earl?"

"Do ya mean Pearl?" Jack suggested dryly. Skittery met his eyes evenly.

"No. It wasn't Pearl. I'd remember somethin' like Pearl."

Cowboy shrugged, allowing it. "What'd she look like?"

Race and Skittery glanced at each other. The former started. "I dunno. I thought she was pretty."

"How could ya tell?" his companion retorted, stealing another chip. "She kept lookin' at us with the worst look on her face. Had a little upturned nose. Made her look like a snoot."

Race shrugged. "Well maybe if you'd take a bath more often, folks wouldn't look atcha like that. So anyway, she was kinda thin --"

"She was real thin," Skittery intervened. "Didn't look like she ever ate. No bust or hips, neither."

The smaller newsie shot him a look, grinning despite himself. "Skitts was really studyin' her."

"Get ya own!" Bumlets suddenly exclaimed, sheltering his plate.

The chip-thief glared at Race, settling back down quietly. "Fine, Race. What did she look like?"

"So I thought she had a nice waist. Could fit yah hands around it."

"Maybe a regular guy's hands," Skittery perried almost conversationally, not even looking up. "You got short little stubby hands ..." He caught his friend's glare. It was too perfect to pass up. "Among other things."

"Ooh," Blink commented, laughing loudly. Mush found it funnier much longer than the rest of them did.

"So ya're not helpin' me any," Jack interrupted finally. "This dame could be any one on Fifth Avenue. What color was her hair?"

"Kinda blonde," Race decided after a moment of consideration. Skittery snorted.

"It wasn't blonde. It was darker."

"Well it wasn't brown!" Race returned, his voice rising a little. His friend shrugged.

"Okay, but it wasn't blonde --"

"So, what?" Jack stopped them nonchalantly. "Not quite blonde? Like a dirty blonde?"

"Ursula!" Racetrack exclaimed suddenly. "That was her name. Ursula."

Mush's face contorted in response. "Cripes. What's the matter with rich folks anyhow?"

Jack shook his head. "I never met her. I don't think Elsie's ever even brought her up. She's got some other friend ... but she's got kinda red hair, and real green eyes. Her name wasn't Ursula ... it was somethin' god-awful, though."

A waiter stopped by, raising a pen and pad of paper. "Sorry, guys. It's crazy in here. What can I get ya?"

Race didn't even think about it. "Ya got any provalone?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I think so."

"I'll have that."

"Whaddya take, Skittery?"

Bumlets swallowed another sardine and intervened irritably: "Get him a whole big mess 'a fish-and-chips!"

The waiter laughed and walked away. Skittery glared at Bumlets. "Now who says I want fish-and-chips? I'm freakin' tired of 'em now. Why'd you go and do that?"

The conversation had already turned against his rant. Racetrack was coaxing Jack.

"So them rich girls, they like to get away from all their uptight rich person stuff?"

His friend shrugged. "Sure, I guess."

"Yeah, but you ain't gettin' nothin' from 'em," Skittery commented darkly, glaring down Bumlets's greasy plate that symbolized his impending unwanted meal. He could feel Racetrack's eyes on him heavily.

"So maybe gettin' laid ain't all I'm concerned with."

Skittery met his eyes. "So maybe that's bullshit." He glanced around the table, waiting for some acknowledgement of his correctness. "Am I right? That's all it always boils down to, huh?"

Mush was uneasy. "Well ..."

"C'mon," Skittery was getting on his soapbox. "So I sound like a bad guy sayin' it because I'm just a horny street kid. But I tell ya what, all that's gonna happen is some hot-shot science fella's gonna come along and say, 'Guess what? Everythin' everybody does comes down to gettin' laid.' And everybody'll go ... 'jee, that's all it is.' And he'll be some genius for sayin' all everybody thinks about is sex." He picked up Bumlets's glass of water and held it up. "Mr. Genius-Science-Fella, here's to you. Anybody else would be called a pervert."

He downed the glass just in time for his fish-and-chips to show up. Jack coughed quietly, trying to keep from laughing for the moment.

"Whatever you say, Skitts."

A pause. Racetrack turned back to Cowboy.

"Ah'right. So Jack, I'm thinkin' this dame could let loose a little, under the right circumstances. So I'll buy ya lunch if you can get yah girl to drag her along to the docks this weekend."

Jack considered this, taking a sip from his water. " 'Kay. I can agree to that. Ursula, right?"

Racetrack nodded, glancing sidelong at the kitchen. "I think she's a nice dame."

"I think she's a tight-ass," Skittery mumbled. Nobody listened to him. He glared down at the fish-and-chips distastefully, the smell of vinegar and salt wafting up to his nose poignantly. He blinked a few times, pushing the plate over to Bumlets.

"Hey, wait," Racetrack thought of something suddenly. "Spot Conlon's gonna be there, huh?"

Jack shrugged. "I'd assume. It's his docks, ain't they?"

"You'll keep 'im occupied, Skitts? So he don't ... do nothin' stupid?"

Skittery looked up, his brow furrowing. "Why me? You's the one who likes the guy so much."

Race's eyes widened. "I'm gonna be with the dame!"

"Doin' what? She's a regular prude. Won't even kiss a guy until her weddin' day."

Kid Blink groaned. "Jeeze, Skitts, just do somethin' nice for somebody and start a poker game or somethin' with Spot. That way he won't bother 'er. You know how he is."

"I know exactly how he is," Skittery retorted evenly, "and that's why I don' wanna be around the guy. Last time I just about soaked 'im."

Jack looked up from his sandwich. "He'd break your face."

That set him off. "He would not. The guy weighs like ninety pounds."

"He's wiry," Mush commented, leaning back into the booth. Skittery let out a long sigh, pushing back from the table.

"Say, I'm fed up. I'm gonna go sell some papes, Race."

His companion looked up at him, brow furrowed. "Why? We got enough dough just at the church. I'm not even goin' out tomorrow."

Skittery had already turned his back and walked out of the restaurant. Kid Blink let out a whistle.

"Jeeze, he's in a mood today."

"Argued with every freakin' thing I says since we left the church," Racetrack agreed, shrugging hopelessly. "I don't get it. He's great this mornin'. Makes almost five bucks, just at one spot by itself, and he's rippin' my head off about every damn thing. Now he's gonna go out sellin', when he could go back to the Lodgin' House and sleep the rest 'a the afternoon."

"He's a stange guy," Mush added, letting out a belch.

Jack made known his agreement, staring at the plate of fish-and-chips in front of Bumlets. His brow furrowed, puzzling.

"I thought you ate yah lunch, Bum."

The other newsie glanced down, sighing at the untouched meal in front of him. "I did. Now, look at that. How many meals you think he's missed in his life?"

"I can't exactly guess," Kid Blink put in, "but I would figure enough that he wouldn't let perfectly good food go to waste."

"Ungrateful's what he is," Mush agreed, picking out a couple sardines. All eyes turned to the heaping plate. Mush looked about, chewing one sardine, his face questioning.

Three, two ...

"I ain't payin' for it!" they shouted at each other. The unfortunate one left with a fish tail hanging between his lips groaned. Racetrack took pity on him.

"We'll all put in for it."

They agreed reluctantly. A devilish smirk pulled the corners of Jack Kelly's mouth, and he looked around the group cleverly.

"Let's do somethin' nasty to it and give it to Oscar and Morris!"


	5. Cause I Am Scared To Death

* * *

_'Cause I Am Scared to Death_

"Elsie French, I am seriously reconsidering my oath of not telling Alfie about this Lower East Side fellow," Ursula warned darkly, her lips against her friend's ear. The blonde laughed, tugging away from her and gripping her beau's arm nonchalantly.

This boy, this Jack -- Ursula had to admit, he was something for the eyes. After meeting him, she was forced to dismiss him as a blunt, rude buffoon, but up until the time he spoke, she didn't blame Elsie for her carousing. She understood him to be an American; rather tall for a street person, but certainly not lanky. He had a nice ... he was built ... well, he resembled the boys she knew that played polo and engaged in other athletic activities. She would daresay he had the facial structure of a British prince, until he opened his mouth and put an end to that resemblence. After the first proper introduction, Ursula was finished meeting his gaze. His eyes had a way of singling one out and giving her the feeling of being alone in their darkness, vulnerable to his every word and suggestion.

Jack was beautiful.

However, the moment their meeting was the slightest bit close to being considered properly finished, Racetrack was at Jack's side. He was grinning and friendly, but Ursula had locked herself into the ideal that he was a rude little brute. She determined to stay by Elsie's side in all instances, since she was only here for the sake of her friend, anyway.

This standing dictum was precisely shot down when Elsie gripped Jack's arm. He glanced back at the girl, and she smiled coyly, turning her eyes obviously to Ursula.

"Racetrack," Elsie suggested cleverly, her gaze steady and implicative on her friend, "why don't you show Ursula about the docks?"

She tried to intervene: "Oh, I really don't think that would be proper --"

"Sure," Racetrack agreed easily, jutting out his elbow in some attempt of chivalry. What a ridiculous boy. Surely he should know that it is proper to offer the opposite arm to a lady ...

"Really," Ursula attempted desparately, "it is beginning to get late and we have church in the morning --"

Elsie had already turned her back to her, and was several steps away with Jack. It irritated Ursula, and she was finding the situation even more irritating by the presence of Racetrack.

"You ever been to Brooklyn before?"

Like she was seriously interested in his attempts at conversation.

"No," she retorted, almost too darkly for a lady. He grinned.

"I wasn't supposin' so. Hey, Dave!"

The interjection startled her, and Ursula scanned the scattered gathering to find who Racetrack was referencing. A tall, curly-headed boy was advancing their way. She held back a groan. Surely not another street person ...

"Hey, Race!"

Ursula was struck immediately by his speech. Unaccented -- normal, even. Her brow furrowed thoughtfully. She felt his puzzled eyes on her, and met them with a feminine sort of reserved obedience.

"This is Ursula Wellington. She's a friend 'a Jack's ... friend."

The way Racetrack staggered that introduction, she came to the conclusion that Elsie was not the only "friend" Jack was acquaintanced with.

This Dave smiled and held out his hand. "David Jacobs."

So there it was. A Jew. Ursula smiled politely and reluctantly outstretched her hand. She knew about Jews.

Oh, her father had investments, and held stock with a few. One of the more liberal business associates might invite them to balls. Her father believed that Jews made good associates -- money seemed to fall into their pockets like rain in March, but he said one must keep a studious eye upon them. He said no more because her mother usually had scolded him by that point on discussing business at the table with ladies in his company. Perhaps scold was an incorrect term. She was give him a kind of look that wasn't quite a glare and state in a quiet, whimsical tone that this certainly wasn't a discussion for her feminine mind.

His eyes turned back to Racetrack.

"Why aren't you over at the poker table?"

Ursula's eyes turned to him hopefully. Perhaps the poker table would lure him from her side. However, there was a small part of her that was growing to appreciate his company. Perhaps he wasn't honest, but thus far he was harmless, and might be of some kind of protection should something ... arise. She doubted he could do much to physically protect her, but he seemed to hold some kind of alleyway charm that persuaded his friends easily.

He shrugged. "Don't feel too lucky tonight."

Dave laughed out loud. "Since when does that matter?"

Racetrack shot his friend a glare that did not go unnoticed by Ursula, and almost set her ill at ease. She tried to shake the feeling. Perhaps she was presuming too much. They were boys. What was the worst a group of boys could do? They had no weaponry, and were certainly malnourished and ill-clad for running long distances. Even in these high-laced heels, she could probably outrun most of them, she figured naively.

"Actually, I would like to see the poker table," Ursula piped in, surprising herself. Their eyes turned to her in wonder, and she tried to smile back her embarrassment.

"Really?" Race asked reluctantly.

Dave studied her. "Why?"

She swallowed difficultly and shrugged. "Well ... I've never really seen one. It ... intrigues me."

She scolded herself for such a ghastly lie.

Race sighed, seeming disappointed. "Okay. It's over here."

Ursula was led down the docks, close the the edge. Several boys sat in a circle on the damp boards, a candle illuminating a disheveled pile of coins and marbles and jacks, centerstage. Each boy was holding a group of playing cards in his hand, the kind many society ladies and elder gentlemen considered Satanic. Ursula was not of this impression because her parents delighted in bridge and simply remained silent when an older person began a rant on the evils of card-playing.

Even so, bridge was one thing. Poker was a completely different evil altogether.

As soon as they stood over the group, all faces turned upward, brows furrowed at their unusual entrance. Ursula felt her cheeks burn red, and was grateful for the pathetic flickering that hid it.

"Heya, fellas," easy and calm like that. She wondered at Racetrack's zone of comfort.

"Hey, Race," mumbled not quite in unison, waiting.

"So are you joining or what?" a similar loudmouth to Racetrack; Ursula could not fully make him out in the low light. The only feature that was being done remote justice was his pair of crystalline eyes, piercing and gray, and Ursula figured could do their own justice whenever they willed.

She tore her gaze from those enigmatic orbs long enough to watch her escort, as it were, shake his head in the negative.

"Nah. I'm just showin' Ursula here around the docks."

She heard a few coarse chuckles, and felt a few squinted eyes aimed with puzzled conviction at her face. She held her head high and ignored them.

"Say that name again," somebody requested.

"Ursula."

It wasn't Race who had said it, and it seemed to surprise him as much as it did the owner of the name herself. She turned her gaze to the gathering at her feet and searched for the vocalizer, but no eyes rose to meet her own. She glanced at the diminutive boy at her side and tried to trace his almost-glare. She couldn't figure out which boy he was looking at. Awkwardly, Ursula, touched his elbow.

"What else is interesting around here?"

Racetrack glanced at her a few times, distracted. She watched him in wonder, not even hearing the implicative little remarks being thrown up at them. He nodded slowly, not even leaving a greasy little grin for his friends to take what they willed from. He crooked his arm and led her back towards the shore.

Ursula cleared her throat carefully. "What was that all about?"

He shrugged stiffly, not really paying much heed to her question. He allowed himself a long pause before answering:

"Ahmmm ... They just thought you had a funny name's all."

She fought back the urge to roll her eyes, until she realized that it was dark and he probably couldn't really make out what she did with them, anyway.

"Really," she sighed, "it can't be any funnier than Racetrack and -- and --"

"Skittery?" he supplied quietly. Their eyes locked. She was wrong; he could see perfectly well what was going on within the orbs of her eyeballs. Quickly, Ursula turned her gaze away. "You know that was him, huh?"

She frowned at the nearing shore. "What was him?"

"Skittery," Racetrack persisted. "He said yah name."

Ursula shrugged stiffly, feeling the air of importance but not really understanding its reason. "And that means ...?"

"He said yah name," he repeated, almost to himself. "They was gettin' ready to make fun 'a it, and he said it, just plain like that. 'Ursula.' And that was that. Shut 'em right up afore they even got started."

She stared at him, her confusion apparent despite the dark. But Racetrack apparently had no intentions of furthering the subject. He simply shrugged again, as if the entire situation had beat him beyond all his reckoning. He seemed to be finished with looking her in the eye.

"I can getcha home safe, if you don't wanna wait for yah friend."

Ursula sighed defeatedly. "I'd best wait for her."

She watched the corner of his mouth tug with a smile, but he seemed agitated.

"If you see Skitts on Fifth sometime ... you be sure to thank him."

Ursula ran her tongue over her lips thoughtfully. "I will."


	6. Falling From The Rooftop

_Author's Note: I know updates on this are spaced out, and I'm sorry. Of all my stories, this one is one of the most complex simply because of the characters and how each chapter needs to be written to my ideal. So, I'm sorry! It takes up a lot of my time, and once some of my other stories come to a close (and they're getting close!), I'll have more time for it!_

* * *

_Falling From the Rooftop_

Skittery pulled the oversized, threadbare jacket closer to his body, struggling to keep his arm around all of his papers. It was too damn cold for this. Too damn windy and wet, too. A shiver crawled up his spine, and he felt a sneeze growing in his nose. He rolled his eyes, clamping his jaw irritably. As if he could really afford to get a cold _now._ To be truthful, no time was a good time for a cold, especially when one had an occupation that kept him outdoors almost exclusively. But because Skittery was freezing, and wet, and getting a sneeze, he decided to see that particular point in time the worst possible for catching a cold. It didn't help that his last customer had been attempting to cough one of his lungs into the palm of his hand, and then handed Skittery his due pay with that limb.

He decided the spot he was standing at was useless. On a day like that day, even Fifth Avenue was pathetically void of personage. With a sigh, he started briskly down the street for a little Italian restaurant shoved thoughtlessly between two fashionable boutiques, where wealthy lady shoppers enjoyed cups of flavored coffee and miniature _canoles_ when they began to tire of frivolous buying.

Despite the fact of their heavy accents and off-the-boat demeanor, the family that owned the restaurant had hiked their prices for the benefit of serving a higher class of customer, and now had developed a rather bourgeoisie way of looking down on those that they would have previously been sharing a social class with. Under normal circumstances, Skittery couldn't even afford a cup of plain, brewed coffee, but he had made a strategic friendship with the owner of the restaurant, a middle-aged Neapolitan-born man who said he'd give Skittery a cup of whatever he wanted at the end of a week if he delivered the newspaper directly to the restaurant at no extra cost to said owner. Skittery considered this fair enough, and decided he'd take his coffee now.

The cold and rain pushed his feet faster than usual down the street and right into the quaint little establishment. Much to his dismay, the place was flocked with wealthy society ladies chattering meaninglessly, their maids pushed off to a seperate corner and left to their own gossip. Skittery sighed in defeat and resignedly made his way up to the front of the shop.

"Oh, goodness, Marianne, how vulgar!" one lady exclaimed in his direction a little too obviously. "Dripping all over this beautiful wood floor!"

And again, in a softer whisper: "Poor dear! Smells like a wet dog!"

Skittery felt his muscles tighten, an anger blurring his thoughts as he realized how the unpleasantries of the indoors equalled those of the outdoors. With a sigh to stifle his frustration, he boldly stepped up to the counter and met the owner's wide, nervous eyes.

"I brought yah pape, Mr. Angelo."

He nodded, a little too quickly. "Yes. Thank you."

Skittery half-smiled. "I thought I'd take my coffee today. I'm freezin' to death out there!"

Angelo nodded again, and jerked his thumb towards the kitchen. "Go outside and go around back. Tonia will get you a cup of coffee."

His brow wrinkled with puzzlement. "Mr. Angelo, wouldn't be easier -- and a little more merciful on yah floor -- if I just walked in from here?"

The older man kept glancing towards the wealthy old hens with a strained smile and quick little nods, and suddenly Skittery got it. He tried to conjure up a deadly glare, but Angelo was a stout man despite his Old Country height, and formidable despite his slightly sagging bulk. Besides, it would be an incredibly ill-informed decision to try and start a fight with the Italian. They'd have to take it outside, and then he'd be in the same dank environment he'd find himself in if he'd just turned and walked around back, only with a bloody nose to worsen his plight (and probably without coffee). Angelo met his eyes keenly and struck down their disdain like a swift, clean punch to the jaw.

"Go around back or I'll have to chase you out of here," the Italian whispered through a forced grin. Skittery's glare snapped back up with a resiliant anger.

"Wha -- what's the matter with you?" he demanded without even giving the older man the courtesy of a "Mr. Angelo."

"You're making the ladies nervous," he explained in a low, deadly tone. "I'm not going to have dirty street urchins chasing away business. Either drink your coffee in the kitchen or take it outside, but by God, you'll not be drinking that coffee in here."

Mr. Angelo was an immigrant, and an Italian to boot. He crossed himself when he said his prayers and liked nothing better than a hefty calzone. He was from northern Italy -- an area better educated and furnished than the rocky island that bred the Mafia, and some of the dirtiest criminals the New World had ever seen. He could speak Italian in nearly every dialect of the penninsula, as well as fluent French and almost immaculate English. He had earned money, when he first came to New York, aiding a college professor instruct college boys in the pronunciations of Italian they would need on their trips to the ruins of Rome, and considered himself above other immigrants -- even his own wife -- because of the sophistication he had undergone to be Americanized.

Despite these impressive lengths, and despite the certificate Mr. Angelo had recieved at his short stay on Ellis Island, he still found himself one step behind even the grimiest of street rats overrunning New York City, because they were born on American soil, and he had been birthed in Naples. He could hold his papers in his hands and stare at them until his eyes were sore, but he knew, in the depths of his heart that no one in the New World would ever recognize him as an American. He was an Italian. He was born in Italy, he'd had to take a boat to get to New York, and had to pass tests to gain his citizenship. He had jumped through every hoop, but there was nary a person who would immediately associate his identy with that Mediterrenean penninsula upon hearing his birthplace. Mr. Angelo was not a true American; that understood, it can then be understood the fury that kindled black and murderous as Skittery calmly whispered back:

"You can't make me drink my coffee in the back like a nigger or a wop -- I'm an American, damnit!"

Mr. Angelo took his ear in a deathly tough grip and dragged him -- not out the back, but through the whole shop, through the parlor where the ladies sat, wide-eyed and suddenly silenced -- to the door and quite literally booted him out. Skittery regained his balance before he could slip and fall into a puddle, but the increase in rain was already soaking him. He met the fierce, threatening glare boring a hole between his eyes like a killshot bullet with what he hoped appeared to be equal vehemence.

"You stupid bastard streetrat!" he shouted, and Skittery wished he was within the coffee shop, just to see the collective gasp that must have followed the insult. "You don't deserve to be an American!"

The door slammed a few feet away from him, and Skittery aimed a rebellious wad of spit at the handle (that didn't make it that far) for good measure. He swore under his breath, just to empty himself of his anger in case a businessman or his wife should come strolling by and be wanting a paper; they forgot you as soon as they bought the paper if you were friendly, but by God, they'd never forget your dirty mug if you should be in a bad mood and void of manners for that temporary moment.

Jamming his hands in his pockets, Skittery resolved to leave the front of the restaurant before Mr. Angelo came back with a broom to chase him off of Fifth Avenue altogether. He turned and gave the establishment one last angry glare, determining never to bring that Italian his paper ever again. With a huff of satisfaction, he whirled around and nearly knocked another patron of the building off balance. Quickly, he jumped to his manners.

"Jeeze, 'scuse me, miss, I wasn't lookin' at all I --"

Their eyes locked, and familiarity lit in the depths of their gazes. Skittery stopped talking and gulped, a little embarrassed. She smiled quietly, glancing beyond him to the door, and then back into his eyes. He noticed immediately, out of the corner of his eye, the presense of an older woman -- probably her mother.

He sprung into action and jerked open the door. Her presumed mother smiled quaintly and walked in, apparently her idea of gratitude. Ursula was slower.

"Thank you," she whispered, almost meeting his eyes.

"No problem," he returned as easily as he could. Caught between his adrenaline high from having told off Angelo, paired with the wave of embarrassment at his own stupidity that had immediately followed that high, Skittery felt himself in an odd, stuttering position that brightened the color and his cheeks and only increased his feeling of idiocy.

Ursula walked through the doorway, but stopped just as soon as her feet touched the wooden beams of the indoors and declined her shoulders, leaning slightly backwards and barely directing her chin toward him. If someone were to glance up at her, that person would hardly be able to tell that she was whispering to the boy holding open the door.

"I mean for what you did the other night. I appreciate it."

He met her eyes, and tried to swallow his Adam's apple. "Miss Wellington, I can't say I recall what ya're talkin' about," he managed, trying to make his voice gruff.

She stared at him a moment longer. "How kind of you to remember my name, Skittery."

He wasn't sure, because as soon as she had said it she was scurrying to her mother's table, but Skittery could have sworn that a smile had been gently tugging at the corners of her mouth.


	7. Crashing Like A Raindrop

_Author's Note: Are you in awe of my updating ability yet? Psht. Whatever; you should be. I'm amazing today._

* * *

_Crashing Like a Raindrop_

"But who are we, that we ought to be exempt from the service of the poor? Yes, we write checks, and hand sums out to every orphanage in this grand city, but our hands remain clenched to our sides. Should we not reach out? Brothers and sisters, open your eyes! It is not Protestants -- keepers of the true faith -- that wait with bread and soup for the homeless! It is not we that care for their sick, and give hope to the hopeless! Men and women, we are a generation of bloody hands! We stand silent and self-absorbed while the Catholics take up the slack. How will you face your Maker when the trumpet sounds? We must step forward, and do our Christian duty. That is why I would like to encourage you to sign up at the back of the church to help the homeless orphans of New York. I am not asking for checks, brothers and sisters, but hands, and willing hearts. Let us pray."

It was a normal Sunday morning for Ursula Wellington. Reverend Callwell stood at his pulpit, raising his voice and his hands in an enthusiastic attempt to urge his wealthy congregation to action. She had to appreciate his effort; if nothing else, his pleas against donations only sent them flowing in, because no one wanted to dirty his hands with New York untouchables. She always imagined her father, standing at the Pearly Gates, cradling his right hand and pronouncing in reserved pride: "I wrote a check for the homeless orphans" and assuming that would admit him in. Perhaps he'd have a whole list of the causes he'd written checks for; missionaries in Africa or Asia -- a school in Brooklyn. Her father was all too well-acquainted with writing a check and having someone else do the work.

Her mother, of course, was presently in a slight tiff because the good reverend had promoted a Catholic approach over a Protestant one. In a moment, once the Amen was pronounced, she would be prodding her father to go and speak to Reverend Callwell, and remind him that it was the Protestants, not the Catholics, who were venturing into the jungles of South America to save the pagans. At least the children in New York were Christian; the peoples of the Amazon didn't even wear clothing, and had never heard the name of Jesus Christ in their lives. The point of the sermon had been lost in her mother's mind as soon as the reverend had spoken of Catholic superiority in that particular category. Since then, she'd been wracking her mind for an ultimate Protestant trump card. Her mother was a descendant of William of Orange. Superiority over the Irish in every respect, from pronunciation to religion, was an in-bred obsession.

But Ursula herself was considering the sermon in a completely different light. Reverend Callwell wanted volunteers. Volunteers to help serve the poor, homeless orphans of New York City. Of course there were thousands of orphans in the city ... but they would most likely be staying in the Manhattan area -- of course they would, it would be senseless to travel to the other boroughs; they had their own churches and congregations. So if she was serving the orphans of Manhattan ... Lower East Side, let's say ... then there was a somewhat reasonable likelihood of seeing Skittery ... or Racetrack or Jack or David or Spot, too, of course. Wait, no, Spot was from Brooklyn. Right. But that wasn't important. Suppose, just suppose she were to see him -- _them_ again.

Not that it was incredibly crucial that she did see them again. She didn't want to see them again. That is, she had no pressing desire ... Of course she didn't. But if she were to see them again, just on the off-chance ... well, she would hardly be opposed. They were ... decent individuals. And, now that she knew some -- well, knew their names and could recognize their faces -- well, it gave her a feeling of guilt, not trying to help them. She ought to sign up. Yes. It was her Christian duty.

Besides, even if she was signing up just to see them, which she most certainly was _not,_ she would still be helping many other orphans -- not just them. Skittery had been quite polite the other day. And how very kind of him, remembering her name, and even calling her "Miss Wellington", now, who would have expected --

But she was _not_ signing up in the hopes of seeing Skittery again. That was simply a fluke occurance -- both of them being on Fifth Avenue on the same day. Well, except that Racetrack had mentioned something about Skittery being on Fifth Avenue ... But she could hardly help the fact that the street was _the_ shopping avenue of New York. It wasn't entirely unreasonable to think that both of them would be there on the same day, at the same coffee shop. His eyes were reminiscent of coffee -- not straight black coffee like her father liked it, but with a touch of cream, the way she took it. That very pretty, soft brown color that --

Now that had nothing to do with helping the orphans! None of that. She would be signing up for them and them alone. The poor, fatherless children, starving on the streets and dressed in rags, barely making it through the winter ... Now that was depressing. Her mood had been much higher when she had been trying to determine the exact shade of Skittery's eyes. _Skittery._ Who would even call himself that? It was ridiculous. Just like thinking about him. She had been trying to avoid that ever since he had opened the door for her -- alright, she had been trying to avoid thinking about him ever since he had defended her at the party, but seeing him again had made the activity that much more difficult. "Defended her at the party." All he did was say her name. How could that even qualify as defending her?

Reverend Callwell delivered the benediction, and the rows of expensive suits and high-dollar frocks rose in unison, beginning a soft, murmuring rumble of conversation. Ursula started down the center row, determined to reach the sign-up before her father and mother could inquire and try and persuade her with one of their checks. Once she was signed up, she would be tied by a contract, and every Wellington knew one must _never_ break a contract ... without good reason.

She pushed passed elderly and juvenile, barely remembering to whisper an excuse me and smile to be sure to retain a feminine lack of determination. She reached the reverend after an eternity, shaking his hand and managing quietly:

"Your sermon truly struck me, Reverend." She was lying. To a reverend! She would surely burn forever. "It so touched my heart; I have decided to sign up and help."

A look of genuine surprise lit his eyes, followed by one of reserved anticipation. "Have you spoken to your father about this?"

Ursula swallowed, and looked away from his eyes. "Uh -- of course."

The reverend breathed a sigh and admitted her forward to the sheet of paper. Biting her lip she, she picked up the pen and slowly drug her name above the line. For the time being, it wasn't important that her parents would try and convince her against it, nor was it important that she had lied to Reverend Callwell. She had made it this far. She was taking her own step.


	8. Can You Make My Heart Stop Shaking

_Author's Note: Yay! I'm updating!_

* * *

_Can You Make My Heart Stop Shaking Like a Leaf?_

"Hey, fellas, it's that time 'a the year again!" Crutchy, despite his obvious impairment, had a way of getting out of bed while everyone else was still buried in his own dreams. His announcement was met with less-than-anticipative groans and an assault of shoes and pillows, and where those were not available, then some meaningfully positioned fingers and fists. A few eyes dared to blink open to the blaring, late-summer-morning sunlight. Crutchy wisely chose to cower around the doorway, leaning down the stairwell to yell for Kloppman. Racetrack's hat whizzed through the air and slid to the fist step.

"I'm tellin' you guys," he continued to shout over the irritated protests, "you wanna get out and see these dames passin' out bread!"

"I've seen 'em," Jack Kelly retorted in a loud mumble that was almost audible.

"Yeah?" Crutchy's head peered plaintively around the doorway.

The leader-apparent arched his back and took his arms away from his face to be sure everyone could hear him. "Yeah. But them funny dresses they got on -- it means they ain't interested."

A round of chuckles escaped the tired throats of the handful of boys with minds functioning enough at that point in waking to understand the punchline. Crutchy rolled his eyes, picking up a pillow from the floor and heaving it in Cowboy's general direction. It didn't meet its target.

"These ain't nuns! They're somethin' else --"

"Well whatever they are," Racetrack put in, "if they's handing out bread and coffee to newsies, they _ain't_ interested."

"And that's probably a lucky thing for us," Skittery added, a thin smile on his face before he bothered to open his eyes. He cranked his eyelids apart reluctantly, and began the ritual task of picking the sleep from his eyelashes. There was a certain satisfaction that came from pulling off the hard little encrustments that he enjoyed for no particular reason, and he achieved this task every morning -- despite Kloppman's repeated warning of yanking out his eyelashes as he did so. Supposedly, it was better to soak one's eyes in a warm washrag to soften the substance and wipe it out, but what did Kloppman know? He was passing fifty and going blind.

"I'm tellin' you guys," Crutchy was repeating as Skittery forced himself to sit up. But the ardent speaker never finished his sentence, because Kloppman was already in the doorway, taking charge of the boys' waking. Skittery decided that he was upset that his handicapped friend had awoken him two minutes prior than the time he was actually scheduled to get up. From time to time he liked to do that -- find a good reason to be in a mood. The majority of the time, he had no ill will at all; he just wanted the time left alone. Privacy was more precious than a silver dollar in the Lodging House, at least in Skittery's mind.

He shook his head a few time to feel the air brush passed his face, and slowly pulled his fingers through the thick knots in his hair. He stared at the room through squinted eyes and breathed a loud sigh, just so Kloppman would know he was awake enough and not bother being irritating to his person on top of shouting like a Bantam cock at the other boys. Skittery's hands slid to his cheeks, and he rubbed the sides of his face thoughtfully, caressing his chin with his worn digits. He'd shaved yesterday, but even the slightest trace of stubble was suspicious to most customers. He was getting too old for this. There wasn't a half-wit in Manhattan dumb enough to buy him as a thirteen-year-old. For a moment, he mused over stepping out in front of a trolley, or a cart -- letting them run over his foot and maim him. He quickly dismissed this idea. Being lame was hardly worth one more year -- two more at most -- selling papes. He knew it wasn't the best job the world had to offer, but it was better than the ever-looming alternative: the factory. Skittery himself found it funny (in an ironic sort of way) that everyone referred to that occupation as "_the_ factory." Like there was only one, instead of the dozens upon dozens in the city.

"You comin', Skitts? To see the dames?"

He met the wide, expectant gaze of the crutch-bearing boy, and let out a sigh. "Jeeze, Crutchy. How 'bout you let me get outta bed first?"

The whole morning, in the already crowded bathing room and all about the upstairs of the Lodging House, Crutchy bounced from prospect to prospect, attempting to entice an interested follower with the same bait he'd used since he woke them up. Now Skittery really was starting to feel a little irritable, and judging from the glares and snorts of the others, he was not alone.

In retrospect, Skittery really couldn't remember buying his stack of papers or the walk down the alley to the mainstreet. All he could recall was the constant, almost buzz of Crutchy's nasal pleading and encouragement. If the guy hadn't been crippled, Skittery would have decked him. Just to stop the ridiculously overplayed jabber, he decided to humor his gimpish friend, and followed him disdainfully to the women-loaded wagon across the square. As they drew closer, Skittery immediately noticed the thin lace that stretched from many of the ladies' throats to their necklines, and anticipated a peep show from all of their bending that could actually make Crutchy's prodding worth his time, after all.

Being occupied with that thought, he was unable to sense the dark eyes that were gazing in his direction. Even as he came to the cart and positioned himself in a pity-able slouch, he didn't feel the current of thoughtfulness flowing directly to his own eyes, trying to draw their attention without bringing on that of her fellow Christians. A middle-aged lady with solid black taffeta from beneath her chin to her toes leaned down and handed a roll to a very disappointed Skittery. It wasn't until a soft, almost nervous voice asked a question of him that he even turned to meet the eyes:

"Would you care for coffee?"

Skittery let himself gape stupidly for a second. He blamed it on the morning, when recalling the event. But he couldn't help his own shock. She looked ... pretty, in her own way. She was kind of smiling -- it was her smile that did it. No, perhaps not. She had a nice mouth, sure. But short of cold sores and scars, it was difficult to debeautify a woman's lips. No, it was not the smile itself, but the way it lit her eyes. Her smile and the sunlight brought out a sort of golden hue in the deep brown depths that hadn't been there the first time he'd seen her, nor the second. There was the sunlight, her smile, and the steam from the coffee, too. Yes, the steam was flushing her face, and casting a liquidy film of tears over her gaze, making her orbs sparkle. The warm water vapor had also done its justice to the tendrils previously pulled tight to the nape of her neck. The moist heat had made the hair begin to wave and pull out of its pins, and eventually curl in delicate spirals about her face. The steam; and the sunlight, glittering red-gold over her hair and giving its previous, dingy shade an angelic surreality.

He imagined Ursula Wellington had never looked like this in her life. In the same instant, he decided that if she was aware of her appearance, she'd probably be making every possible attempt to restore it to its previous state.

Her mouth jerked awkwardly, and he realized he hadn't responded to her. He cleared his throat to make his voice gruff:

"Sure." And after a moment, "What're you doin' out here, anyway?"

She turned her back to him and cranked on the odd, steaming mechanism for a flow of the black morning remedy to settle into a tin mug.

"I'm doing my Christian duty," and it was obvious the line was rehearsed -- more than likely for disapproving parents -- "and serving the depraved and unfortunate of New York."

Skittery took a large bite from his roll and held out his hand for the cup. She leaned down carefully, and was sure it was properly held in his hand before releasing the article of hot liquid. He marvelled at how she had avoided touching his hand.

"Thanks for the meal," he managed around his his chewing, and swallowed. He gave himself a moment, and kept her gaze, just to be sure she was listening to him. "I'm gonna hafta repay you."

Her brow furrowed, and he found himself amused at her knit forehead. "Pardon me?"

He grinned, not quite looking at her. "Meet me at Duane Street, across from the Newsboys Lodgin' House. Noon."

Her expression didn't alter, and she glanced at a woman crowded near her, trying to serve a different boy some item of food. She made certain the other female wasn't listening before whispering:

"Why?"

Skittery let himself smirk, and met her in the eye, liking the idea that he was leaving her with a memorable look.

" 'Cause my pops taught me never to take charity off 'a nobody." A lie, but it suited the moment. "You gave me breakfast -- I'll get ya lunch."

"But --"

He made sure he was already making his way across the square before she could manage her protest.


	9. Standing At The Floodgate

_Standing at the Floodgate_

Ursula Wellington was sitting in a clean but shabby little booth, against her better judgement.

Truth be told, she didn't know why she was here, except that maybe she was subconsciously answering to some call of manners. Blast her reflexes. If only she had a little more inclination to be rude, then perhaps this whole scenario could have been bypassed. Yes, it was her manners. Of course. It most certainly, beyond the shadow of a doubt _was not_ the boy sitting across from her. Beyond the shadow of a doubt. It wasn't his stupid, laughing dark eyes, or his ridiculous speech pattern or his absurd-to-the-point-of-_almost_-being-charming smile or ...

"So you talk or what?" he asked straight out, leaning back into the seat. Ursula barely contained her desire to wrinkle her nose. Firstly, he had no rhyme or reason to be slouching; there was a lady present. And secondly, why would he want to? The seats were probably positively filthy.

She shrugged stiffly, trying to sweep back some of the stubborn curls that had made their way to her face. To her great surprise, Skittery reached across and stopped her, gripping her hand between his dirty, ink-stained digits. Ursula turned a glaring eye to him darkly:

"Excuse me --"

"Don't," he told her blankly, holding onto her hand until he had brought it safely back to the table and released it. "It looks better that way. Leave it."

Ursula's brow furrowed in slight confusion, but she said nothing again, and slipped her hand placidly beneath the table to rest on her lap with the other one. Her expression did not alter any, but she averted her eyes about the bustling little restaurant, a little uncomfortably. She took a delicate breath, and, without looking back at him, asked:

"Why did you ask --"

"What?" he interrupted brashly. She turned her head quickly to face him, meeting his eyes with a slight manner of irritation.

"I was _trying_ to say," she began sharply. His brows rose challengingly, but she continued with cold precision: "Why did you ask me here?"

Skittery shrugged easily, raising a hand in the direction of a waitor. As far as Ursula could tell, he was the only waitor in the entire restaurant. If she wasn't so uncomfortable here, which any lady would be, she might find it in her to consider such a place ... charming. Yes, charming, in a rustic sort of way. Much like Skitt -- No. Most certainly _not_ like Skittery.

"I'm fascinated by ya," he came out and said. Ursula felt her cheeks grow red, and she had to glance away to question meekly:

"I do believe I don't understand your meaning."

She didn't have to look up to know he was rolling his shoulders nonchalantly again. "I'm fascinated. I didn't know nobody could be so tight as you."

Her gaze flicked back to him, and a sort of almost-anger burned coldly in his direction. "Beg your pardon?"

Skittery opened his mouth to explain, but the waitor had made time to walk over, and the newsie was grinning now. He shot one of those irritatingly adorable smirks at her before turning back to his apparent old chum in the food service business.

"I want a sausage with saurkraut."

"I dunno, Skitts. That cabbage stinks. Ain'tcha afraid 'a offendin' Queen Victoria?"

"Shut up."

The waitor took down his order, but Ursula was not one to miss his disbelieving, amused gaze focused intently on her. A silence followed, and the young Wellington girl made no move to speak. She felt the waitor's eyes on Skittery, slightly confused, before her lunchmate leaned forward to tap her.

"You gonna order there?"

Her dark eyes flickered between the two of them, confused. She was about to question this practice; gentlemen always ordered for ladies, especially in strange restaurants. But Skittery had yet to surprise her with a knowledgeable show of manners -- except for that time in front of the coffee shop --

"Oh. Yes. I'll have ... the same."

The waitor actually _snorted_, right in front of her, and headed on to the next table, leaving Ursula more than a little embarrassed and insulted.

"He'll never make it to a real dining place with that attitude," she sniffed, staring stubbornly at the window. Skittery laughed, which brought her attention back to the perpetrator of this whole mess. A little more clipped than a lady should have dared (but then, Ursula was a little more upset than usual): "Why did you ask me here? Just to patronize me?"

Skittery's eyes widened in surprise, and he held up his hands in surrender, shaking his head fervently. "No! Jeeze, no. I just ... Look. I can't put it no other way, and I know you's gonna take offense to this."

Ursula braced herself, and looked him in the eyes. After all, this whole experience couldn't contain any worse rudeness, could it? Between Skittery and the waitor, she could have found just cause to never speak to either again. Why would the former say she was fascinatingly "tight"? And what right did the latter have to take on that demeaning tone when referring to her as "Queen Victoria"?

But Skittery was apparently a little anxious with what he had to say, and this made a slight feeling of guilt run through her veins. Maybe ... maybe he couldn't help his rudeness. Perhaps, he really and truly didn't know any better. Better ... What was better about manners? Wasn't he being honest where those she associated with made sweet, lily-colored lies? A trembling within her that did not make it to physical manifestation jittered through her mind, but she quickly pushed it away. She would examine that later. Something as serious as questioning the entire standard she had been brought up by would need hours of thought and reasoning on her own time, not while this young, brash street boy sat in front of her, trying to explain himself.

"Ah'right," he sighed. "What I'm sayin' is, you gotta be bullshit."

Ursula's jaw actually went slack. She was too shocked by the notion of him swearing so loudly and harshly to her face to procure a propoer chastening. Inspired by her silence, he continued:

"There's no way you's as cold and clean-cut and proper as you is. _Nobody's_ like that. Nobody can be like that all the time. I'm sayin' you put on a damn good show --"

Again with the cursing.

"-- but you ain't the whole song and dance you fake bein'. I really, really believe you gotta be more than that. You gotta. 'Cause if you really is like all that, then my faith in humanity is shit. See what I'm sayin'?"

The young woman was more than a little confused, but she was afraid that if silence should take over, then he would start swearing at her again. So she took a deep breath, and nodded weakly.

"In a manner of speaking ..."

Skittery sighed loudly, shaking his head. "You don't get it. So here."

Ursula found herself yet again puzzled, looking at him to see what it was he wanted to give her. There was nothing; he only wanted her eyes meeting his again. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, and she didn't know why. They just sat there quietly looking at one another for what seemed like an eternity to Ursula, though she was sure it was only a few seconds at most. Slowly, Skittery began to nod.

"Ya know, I think there _is_ more to you."

His lunchmate started to scoff, but he was quick to interrupt her before she exposed his rather schmaltzy display.

"And it's trapped somewhere in that head 'a yours. I think somewhere in there you got a brain. Ya're just hidin' it 'cause yah ma says it ain't ladylike."

Ursula's eyes widened with insult. She'd taken enough assaults against her person, but her _mother?_

"I resent tha --"

"But it ain't too big if it's there." Why did he feel the need to both interrupt and insult her simultaneously?

"I'm missing the point," she stated sharply. Skittery grinned. If she didn't know any better, one_ might_ suspect that he was enjoying her irritation.

"Miss Wellington, do you really give a damn about which one 'a these is the salad fork?" She rose an eyebrow at the identical silverware, one in each fist.

"Those are both meat forks."

Skittery rolled his eyes, letting out a sigh of exasperation. He opened up his mouth, probably to spew more random, unconnected wisdom, but the waitor was back with two steaming plates. The sour, poignant smell wafted to Ursula's nose unfamiliarly, and she watched, wide-eyed, as a thick, red sausage (like the one she'd had at Coney Island when she was small) resting on a bed of glossy, stringy somethings was placed before her. Without any regard to her, Skittery began to shovel the white, slimy threads into his mouth.

Ursula took a deep breath and blinked away the moisture that had glazed her eyes from the shock of the meal's sharp odor. Delicately, she picked up her fork and began to slice a sliver from the sausage.

"Now, I'm quite certain you'll have no qualms about correcting me if I'm wrong on this," she began pointedly; the way Skittery refused to glance up from his dinner was proof enough that her point hadn't penetrated; "but it sounds as if you want me to prove some sort of personal theorum about the world through me."

Skittery was gracious enough to swallow before tipping his head back and laughing obnoxiously. Ursula rose her brow and resigned herself to never understanding him.

"You're like a freakin' dictionary -- you know that?" he barely gulped out, laughing some more. Ursula held back a scoff and delivered the bit of sausage to her mouth. Slowly, the newsboy came to. "Ah'right. Sorry. That was just ... real good. Anyhow. Like I said, you fascinate me. You gotta either be the best actress in the whole damn world, or the most mindless ninny ever. And I wanna know which it is."

Ursula swallowed delicately, and breathed a heavy sigh, making sure he was looking her in the eye. "You've only seen me twice. How can you assume that I'm _always_ 'like that', as you so eloquently put it?"

The newsie was gulping down another forkfull of saurkraut. Some of it was caught in his front teeth when he grinned at her.

"_Are_ you always a lady, Miss Wellington?"

Ursula opened her mouth, but stopped, choosing to study him closely first. He'd set her up in a choice between a bed of marble or a bed of slate. Her eyes narrowed, and she took another bite of the sausage. She could feel him smiling at her.

"You's just as bullshit as any 'a us," he deducted joyfully. She looked up and stared at him for a long time. She was beyond the point of correcting his brashness. It seemed that would come whether she chided it or not. So the only thing she was left with was:

"And so what if I was? What would that prove?"

Skittery shrugged, stabbing the sausage with his fork and picking up the whole link, bringing it to his mouth to take a bite.

"I'd think it'd _prove_ that ya're stuck in a pretty damnable place. And I think it'd _prove_ you'd wanna get out."

He bit into the juicy link, and let the grease slide down his chin satisfyingly. Ursula rolled her eyes and offered him her handkerchief. He swallowed the bite and took it complacently, wiping away the hot liquid. He held out the bit of cloth, and her hand enclosed around it slowly.

"And since you came and ate with me, I think it proves you do wanna get out --"

Ursula opened her mouth to protest, but he raised his hand and quieted her before she could speak.

" -- with me."

The Wellington girl felt her throat go dry with disbelief, and she blinked a few times, just to clear her mind. She stared at the newsboy for a long time before finally sputtering:

"I beg your pardon?"

"Just humor me," he responded anxiously. "Come out with me tonight."

Ursula began to shake her head. "N-no. I can't. It wouldn't be --"

Skittery reached across the table and took her hand. She watched him in disbelief, and the look in his eyes showed that he wasn't entirely why he had done it, either, except maybe to emphasize his point.

"How old are you?"

She knew her gaze was glittering with confusion. "Seventeen ..."

"So there's me, too," he told her, reasoning using the best of his streetsmarts. "Next year I'm a regular adult, 'kay? I'm runnin' the joints in the factory, sooner than I want. And where'll you be next year? Finishin' school? Engaged?"

Ursula shook her head, and her words surprised even her: "Not if I have anything to do with it."

"Yeah, which you won't," Skittery reminded realistically, continuing on: "Don't you wanna say you did somethin'? Someday, when you's all old and wrinkled and widowed, knitting away for no reason, don't you wanna say to yourself, 'It wasn't a total loss, 'cause there was this one crazy, poor bastard when I was still a kid and dumb enough to be irrational.'"

She stared at him for a long time, letting the silence convict her in the dark, secret places of her mind. She kept staring at him, and kept her head steady, though her voice trembled:

"I ... I don't want to do anything I'll regret."

Skittery gave her one of his easy shrugs. "I ain't exactly an expert here, but I can see you bein' old and regrettin' never doin' nothing over doin' something worth remembering."

Ursula's brow furrowed, and suddenly she realize her mouth was slightly parted. Quickly, she closed it and watched his eyes for some show of foul play. Despite his nonchalance, there was a ... a sincerity glowing back at her. Something about him really believed in all this, and something about her liked that. Slowly, she breathed out a sigh, and shook her head chasteningly at herself.

"It won't be easy for me to get out of the house."

"Good," he murmured, picking up his sausage again. "Maybe you can grow some creativity between now and ten o'clock."


	10. Steady As An Earthquake

* * *

_Steady as an Earthquake_

Skittery didn't ask how Ursula managed to get out onto the street in front of her enormous house.

He didn't have to. She started babbling about it the minute she saw him approaching in the bright moonlight, and he wondered who wound her up. The perfect little Victorian had said hardly a word to him before, and now she was actually explaining, in great detail, how she'd slipped out.

Even in the dark, finding the Wellington house had been no great trial. She had told him the address outside of Tibby's, and explained how it was a great, new establishment, built only about five years ago by her father. In the old neighborhood, he had no trouble picking out the spiralling steeples and shining, new brick. He didn't have much time to study it, though, as it was around fifteen after ten, and the moon was bright but pallid, and Ursula was waiting for him already.

"I had to wait until everyone was asleep -- even the servants, and Jeeves locked up. Father makes me keep my own key, but the door is loud because it's so big. So I went out the servants' entry which is small and quiet. But I was scared out of my wits. Branyaghe the maid is quite a busy-body, and I don't think she sleeps. Well, I mean, of course she sleeps, but her ears catch everything. But going out the servants' entry; then maybe she would figure it to be Caroline or Maggie. She wouldn't figure it was me, by any stretch. I don't think so, anyway. Where are we going?"

Skittery had only been about half-listening to her whole tale, as he'd never thought of sneaking out to be some great, difficult accomplishment. But right at the end she tagged a question, and having to perk to attention caught him offguard.

"Oh, um ... You'll see."

He actually did have a plan, though he wasn't entirely sure why he'd chosen it. If he thought about it too much, he'd start to question why he cared so much about bringing the brat there in the first place. And questioning himself would put him in a bad mood, and if he got in a bad mood, he'd scare her or piss her off or something. Not that that'd usually be a big deal, but they were in New York, and it was night, and she might do something stupid like run off and get mugged, and with his luck she'd go back home and blame the whole thing on him, and the next thing he knew, he'd have a noose around his neck. Yeah, that'd be his luck. So it was better not to be questioning himself.

And, anyway, what would be the big deal if he did want to be around her? She wasn't ugly or anything. Right now, with the moon the way it was, she was actually kind of pretty ... like she had been that very morning. He noticed suddenly that she hadn't even wrapped her hair up, but left it alone in long, soft spirals. Jeeze, who would know dames had such long hair, the way they pinned it to their heads? Skittery pretended she left it down for him. Because he'd told her he liked the way those little curls had framed her face at Tibby's. Well, at least in so many words he had.

A very cool breeze brushed passed the silent pair as they headed further away from the safety of a high class neighborhood, and closer to Skittery's territory. It rustled her hair in a way he figured she wasn't used to, seeing as how it was always pulled up, and she almost startled to feel it touch her face. She looked over at him, and Skittery wondered how eyes that could look gold in the sunlight could look like onyx in the twilight. They reminded her of this one old bird's ring. She'd given him a dime and said to keep the change, and placed it in his hand with her wrinkled, blue-veined hand, and he'd wondered why she wasn't wearing gloves, until he saw her huge ring with a shiny black stone set in it. And she'd been so nice that he was brave enough to aske he what it was. And she said it was an onyx ...

"You cold?" he asked her quietly, and he didn't know why he'd kept his voice low. She shook her head, and looked away from him. Skittery let a silence fill up the space between them because he didn't know what to say. Since she'd told him about getting out of her house, she hadn't murmured a word. He swallowed, and tried again. "You ain't scared 'a me, are ya?"

A little smile tried to tug at her mouth, but she refused it and shrugged her shoulders. "I don't think so."

Something unknown stabbed guiltily at him, and Skittery tried to trace a point in their vague meetings that he would have given her just cause to fear him.

"You don't hafta," he told her quickly. "Really. I ain't bad or anything."

She looked at him now, again with those dark, sparkling eyes. "I know that. I'm ... simply uncertain."

Skittery decided that this was good enough to start a conversation with. "About what?"

The corner of her mouth jerked thoughtfully, and she shrugged, her shoulders stiff. "About what this means. Being out here, with you."

She looked at him again. For a long time, it seemed, she just looked at him, trusting that the ground would stay level beneath her feet as she took each step to match his, questioning him with those endless, colorless eyes.

Finally Skittery was able to look away and shrug awkwardly, staring at the sidewalk that would soon give way to cracks and make the street a safer walking ground. But she was still looking at him, at least for a moment, after he looked away.

"It can mean whatever you want it tah mean," he told her finally, not really sure if his tone came off sincerely. Listening closely, he heard the ladylike version of a snort follow his response.

"How am I supposed to know what I want it to mean?" she told him, and if he didn't know any better, Skittery would have said she had a hint of sarcasm in her voice. "Nobody told me what this means, what this makes me. Nobody told me."

He looked at her from below a confused, furrowed brow. "Does everything gotta have a meaning?"

Suddenly, Ursula was walking quicker than he was, and Skittery had to lengthen his step to keep up. Since when could dames move in those ridiculous shoes?

"Yes," she almost spat back, crossing her arms and continuing in her quick little steps. "Everything has to have a meaning. Everything has to have a reason. People don't just _do_ things for nothing ... they just don't."

Skittery finally found it in him to take hold of her arm and jerk her to sudden, rude stop. She whirled around to face him, and he saw now that those dark, sparkling eyes were alive with something like rage that was too placid and feminine to be so. She stared at him in the eye for a long moment before glancing down to her arm, noticing that his had was still gripping it. Her gaze flitted back to his, but Skittery did not let go.

"You wanna know why ya're doin' this?" he demanded hoarsely, more than a little irritated. Why did she have to overanalyze stuff? They couldn't even make it a block into the Lower East Side without her trying to figure out her own motives. They were better off not talking, like before. "You can't figure it out on yah own?"

Those eyes narrowed, and she took a breath, sputtering in a tone that, coming from anyone else, would have been named defiant:

"No! No, _'Skittery'_, I _can't_ figure it out on my own. I'm not supposed to and I don't. I'm not even supposed to be here; I'm just trying to do what I'm supposed to ..."

Skittery didn't realize he was gripping her arm harder when his own frustration got the best of him. "Oh, shut up. You know, I don't believe a word 'a you. How 'bout you get off it? 'Cause you never woulda even stepped outside 'a Vanderbilt's funeral if you really believed all this crap you like to talk."

Ursula's mouth opened, but he was speaking again before she could even get a word out:

"Just stop. Stop worryin', stop thinkin', stop all 'a it. 'Cause it don't matter why ya're here -- ya're here. I swear, you prob'ly spend ninety percent 'a the time you could be havin' fun thinkin'. What're you worried about? Yah ma approvin'? Well if she knew you was out here, she _wouldn't_ approve. So what's there to think about? Now come on."

Skittery let go of her arm, and started walking again, and he honestly didn't expect Ursula to continue beside him. He wasn't even aware that she truly was beside him until he glanced to his left, and met her gaze. Up until that point, he'd assumed the clicking intrepidation had been the sound of her walking away. But their eyes locked, and her mouth parted. She didn't say anything, and something in Skittery knew she wouldn't. He knew somewhere, that even if he would have chided her with every form of logic he could imagine, she would never actually tell him he was right about that.

Gently, he took hold of her elbow and slowed the two of them down to turn down an alleyway. Her eyes questioned him, but he gave her a look he hoped reassured her that they would be safe, even if it was a Lower East Side back street. Anyway, he knew, they wouldn't go more than a dozen paces in, because it was the fire escape they'd be taking, not the entire length of the street.

He stopped them in front of the cast iron stairway, making a grand, sweeping motion to the metallic ladder.

"Whichever way you want. Ladies first, or I can lead the way."

Ursula tilted her head to the side thoughtfully, and brushed a stubborn curl out of her face. "Are we going all the way to the top?"

Skittery grinned, now turning to look up the steep, perpendicular side of the building. "Yep."

His attention was drawn back as he heard the rattling of her shoe catching the first step. He watched her long, pale fingers grip the railing, and stare up the length of the first segment, to the first landing.

"Then I'll go first."

Her eyes darted to his, and they seemed to dance with laughter. But maybe it was the moonlight. "You'll catch me if I fall?"

Skittery made a mocking of an indecisive shrug. Mostly, it was just to get that picture of her in his head: one foot on the ground, the next on the first step, her body ready to propel forward but her face turned back to him, to the pale glow of the moon that made her face and hands look as if some fine doll-maker had crafted them out of porcelain, and the breeze pushing her endless curls gently about her -- and that same moon that made her eyes look like onyx embers and her skin like white, translucent glass gave her hair an etheral flaxen color he never would have suspected could be hers. She looked like an angel, perched on the stairway to heaven. And in that moment, Skittery would have followed her anywhere. She laughed at him, and started up.

He was right behind her, the whole way up, and in his mind he prayed that the climb would never end. Because the newsboy wasn't entirely sure, once they were at the top of the building, that he could resist the swarm of thoughts that were tainting his mind in a way he decided men oughtn't think about seraphims. He swallowed hard, wishing he could swallow the annoying, drum-like beating of his blood in his veins and the dark, aching longing that was making him light-headed. She asked if he'd catch her, if she fell. But what if he fell? Who would be there to break his descent? And Skittery decided he didn't want any to intercede in his fall, if she was the reason he was falling.

She stepped onto the roof, and whirled around to look at him. Skittery couldn't believe she was smiling. He didn't necessarily want, but at the same time, did need, the old, annoying, overanalytical Miss Wellington to rear her head again. But he decided he was better off with an Ursula he couldn't find a reason for.

"It's lovely up here," she told him, staring up at the full, pearly, glowing moon. He looked up, too, and found himself grinning like an idiot at rock in the sky, of all things. He glanced back at her, and couldn't find it in him to wipe that stupid smile off his face as he jerked his head toward the opposite side of the building.

"C'mere. You gotta do this."

A puzzled look crossed her face as she followed him obediently to the three-foot crowning of the building that served as a thick, makeshift railing. Skittery swung one leg over the side, sat down, and swung the other leg beside it, perching himself on the crowning and dangling his feet over the ornately carved wood. He glanced back at her, to meet eyes wide with shock and uncertainty.

"I can't do that with this dress on."

He took in her clothing, and thought this over, trying to avoid the fact that she could sit quite easily if she wasn't wearing anything --

"Here." Skittery swung back around, and offered her his hand. With trembling fingers, she grasped his dirty palm, and gently swung first one leg, then the second, gripping his digits with her sharp, long nails. He heard her gasp, and didn't attempt to take back his hand.

"I'm going to fall!" she breathed, staring down at the alleyway below. Against his better judgement (not that it was exactly in working order at this point), Skittery wrapped his other arm around her waist, standing directly behind her. Barely, she jerked her chin to look at him.

"No, ya're not," he reassured her quietly, and slowly she released his other hand and let that arm encircle her waist as well. Gradually, he felt the muscles in her back loosen against his chest, and a thrill hummed through his veins.

"Don't let me go," she told him, her voice still trembling a little. Skittery wrapped his arms tighter about her, and rest his chin on the mass of hair that lay across her shoulder in its descent to its ending point just above her last rib.

"I won't," he answered in a whisper that barely reached her ear. Slowly, she rest her hands on top of his, and leaned back against him. If Skittery were in a position to be thinking, he would have wondered why she was doing that. But he had his arms around an angel that had inhibited Ursula Wellington's uptight body, and simply accepted his good fortune.

A good kind of silence overtook them for minutes on minutes on minutes, and Skittery liked it. The lack of speaking ... just quiet, trusting, satisfied air, and the gentle feeling of her breathing against his heart.

"Do you ever wish you had wings?" she asked him suddenly, her eyes still absorbed in the sky. "I always thought, if I had wings, that nothing could happen to me. Just consider it. Nothing bad could ever happen, because instead of being here, on the ground where there are sharp things and hard things and painful things, one would be in the air. Like when you're little, and your father tosses you up, only there would be no reason for him to catch you again. Because you'd never fall."

Skittery considered this for a short time before taking a breath, tasting the faint scent of roses that must flavor her collogne.

"Falling ain't all bad."

Ursula allowed herself a soft, musical chuckle. "I've always been so clumbsy. It hurts to fall."

"Well ..." Skittery was afraid speaking this aloud would make him sound like an absolute moron, but at the same time decided she was in no position, literally, to be making fun of him. "Not if you got someone to catch you."

She shook her head. "But there's no way you'll always have someone there. It's impossible. No one can be with you all the time to catch you."

Skittery was beginning to wonder if they were still talking about the physical act of tripping and not regaining balance quickly enough.

He wasn't really thinking; it was like a reflex: "I'd catch you."

She turned her head and looked at him curiously, her brow furrowed in puzzlement. But Skittery wasn't about to answer another metaphorical question. He really didn't know if she had plans to speak again or not, but he didn't care. If neither one of them ever spoke again, it would be enough just to have his mouth on hers, just to feel the trembling of her lips against his, just to taste the bland, moist heat of her tongue.

Skittery wasn't exactly thinking, but it did surprise him to feel her meekly kissing him back. His mind went blank, and he was drawn in, unaware of the world or the sky or the building or the whole damn sleeping metropolis that was New York, because he'd never felt his blood so hot in his veins or the oxygen so sharp in his nostrils. He'd never yet --

But she stopped him. Suddenly, and his eyes blinked open and brought back the hazy memory of this void, ugly world that didn't even feel real in comparison to the realm that existed in her kiss. She took several deep breaths, and held tight to him as she swung her feet back around, and stood in front of him.

Skittery was afraid to kiss her again. He wanted to, desperately. But he feared she'd stop him again, and he could not be denied the dream of embracing her. Not a second time. He stared at her, questioning, and she stared at him with an expression he couldn't read. Skittery swallowed heavily and tried to take in breath through his mouth. He did even finish a full inhale before her mouth was suddenly upon him again, her arms around his neck with a force he didn't know ladies like her possessed. She was kissing him.

He wasn't thinking anymore. There wasn't any blood left in his brain. He didn't know how, or why, or when, but somehow they were on the ground ... which was a ceiling ... and he was on top of her, but she was still kissing him. She wasn't stopping him. She didn't stop him. Why wouldn't she stop him? She should stop him ... if she wanted this to stop. If she didn't want to go on ... He wasn't going to stop ... Her breath against his face ... Why wasn't she telling him no? ... But she was still kissing him ... Tearing at his clothes ... Why the hell did women wear these damn garters, anyway? He was on fire ... If she wanted him to stop ... But he wasn't ... he couldn't ... he wouldn't ... He needed her ... Damn manners ... damn the first class ... damn being a lady ... damn chastity ... And damn this world that wasn't half as real and beating and passionate and raw as the rhythm of loving her with all his strength ...

Skittery opened his eyes, and she was staring back at him. He felt her hands on either side of his face, felt her body, warm and smooth, against every inch of his. She looked at him, and didn't smile ... but she kissed him again. He took a breath and felt his arms collapse beneath him, and rest his face in those thick, pale curls that framed her face. He felt her hands in his hair, on the back of his neck, and sighed. Ursula wrapped her arms around his neck, and gently pulled his face close to her mouth.

"I'm falling," she whispered, her breath barely trembling in his ear. Skittery propped himself up on one elbow, and her arms loosened about his neck. He tilted his head and looked at her, breathing heavily and wondering remotely if his cigarette breath offended her.

"I've got wings."


	11. Can You Hear My Heart Break?

_Can't You Hear My Heart Break?_

Ursula watched as her knife slid through the tender sliver of beef, barely tuning her ears into the conversation happening about her. Well, conversation was a misnomer. Reverend Callwell was proving his overtypical long-windedness as her parents feigned interests and fed his blazing fire with more questions about all things moral and holy. She felt Elsie steal a glance at her before turning her adoring eyes back to Alfie's; neither so rude as to talk while the good reverend spoke, but also hardly polite enough to listen. Ursula would have snorted, but it would have drawn attention to her in a most unbecoming way. She delivered the bird-like portion of meat to her mouth, but tasted only skin and sweat and the after-flavor of tobacco smoke. She could feel her hands trembling and tilted her fork ever so slightly to keep it from dinging against her plate.

Her mind had been in a perpetual blur since that night, a week ago. She heard only the loud, trembling breath in her ear; saw only the deep, dark eyes; smelled only the acrid stench of sweat and dirt; felt ... _everything._ His hands and lips and skin and hair and the hard, unforgiving wood on her back. Her stomach churned, and she fought the memory for the umpteenth time that week, to stay focused on the dinner so her mother wouldn't ask, _again,_ if she was sick, as she "appeared to be getting a fever." If she went on much longer like this, Ursula was sure she would either die or go completely mad.

She couldn't find it in her to look back at Reverend Callwell when he should direct a question at her, not that he'd done it often, but he had glanced at her more than once -- most likely in an attempt to escape her parents. She kept her eyes on her green beans, but couldn't help the snide thought whispering in her ear. There they were: her mother, the proud; her father, the greedy; Elsie the rebellious; Alfie the deciever -- and she, Ursula the whore. Five sinners and a saint at a table, enjoying a finely cooked roast beef. In some slightly sadistic way, it was kind of a beautiful picture, at least in Ursula's mind.

Since her ... meeting with Skittery, everything he'd spoken of had slowly, in one way or another, come irritatingly into focus. Just yesterday, she'd been sitting at luncheon with her mother and Elsie and Mrs. French, and stared at the forks, and wondered, with annoyed repitition, _why_ it was that there was a salad fork and a meat fork. It wasn't as if the prongs on the meat fork were any sharper, or more fit to hold a bit of meat. And if the meat was cooked properly, it should be tender enough for a salad fork, anyway. She'd glared at that useless meat fork, frustrated with the entire stupid ideal he'd barely mentioned, and now plagued her mind. Did it really matter, indeed. She felt like shouting at him. No, it doesn't matter, but what would you know about it?

It was at some point after that that she began to develope a new theory about the classes, since she'd very well shot to ... Hades the last one. She decided, after much consideration, that the differences in the classes must be the margin of things that don't matter. The greater the margin, the higher the class, especially (and she was trying to work out if it was exclusively) in ladies. After all, what difference did it make that she could tell a water silk from a French silk if she wouldn't be making or mending the dress, anyway? Why did it matter that she know the rhythm of iambic pentameter if it was unbecoming for her to do any theatrics in the first place? And this -- all of this -- somewhat useless excess had been shoved at her and the others to occupy their minds because ... otherwise they'd be questioning the position of those things in the first place. It was like being a child in a club or game. The only point in making it more complex or intricate was to hold the players' attention.

But now she had gone and shattered it, at least for herself. Because she'd felt and seen and tasted and smelled and heard the most basic reality, and now everything else was emptily frivilous. But now this didn't make sense, and this was what she still couldn't quite work through in her head. Her mother, and all the ladies of society had experienced the same same reality, simply at the appropriate time. Why, then, were they still absorbed in the excess? It didn't make sense. They, too, had ... physically known men, and not just once, or a ... well, rather bluntly, a stranger, but their husbands. To men they claimed to love. If this was not the absolution on the argument of love's inexistence, then Ursula didn't know what was. But even so, how could it happen --

"Ursula."

Her mother's tone was brinking on being sharp, which led the girl in question to realize that it had not been the first time her name had been called. She looked up, meeting her mother's cool, silver eyes with a twinge of embarrassment.

"Yes, Mother?"

"The kitchen, Ursula. Go tell Branyaghe to bring out the dessert."

Ursula looked about her in confusion, searching the corners of the room. "Where's Jeeves?"

So slighltly that it could only be picked up by a daughter, her mother's teeth ground within her fakely placid smile before she forced a quiet laugh. She glanced at the reverend.

"Ursula has not been feeling well. She's had fevers all week, if you would be so kind as to pardon her."

Reverend Callwell's eyes now, dark and sympathetic:

"Of course."

Her mother's again:

"Jeeves has left to run your father an errand, and the reverend and I are having a discussion. Would you be so gracious as to act as hostess and tell Branyaghe to bring the dessert out?"

She was still smiling, and her tone was soft, but every word was enunciated to exact clarity and almost clipped. Ursula took a deep breath and rose from the table, glancing once more at her mother before avoiding the woman's eyes altogether and starting briskly down the hall. She came to the pantry door and paused, her hand on the doorknob, because a burst of laughter had just found its way through the threshhold, and she was interested in anything that would tear her mind away from Skittery and that night:

"So my Todd, he comes runnin' to this doorstep, eyes as wide as saucers they are, and I'm busy with the missis's tortes, and he comes burstin' in, and I'm ready to take the boy right out and pummel 'im for burstin' in all dirty and disheveled. I open my mouth, and I'm right-mad, but he spits out afore I get the chance: 'Ma!'" Branyaghe's voice cracked with laughter, and she satisfied a peal before continuing. "'Ma, there be mouse lips on the floor!'"

An echo of confused laughter, and then Maggie:

"By the Virgin, you say 'mouse _lips'?"_

Branyaghe, still jovial: "Aye! Mouse lips. I says, 'Mouse lips? Lad, you be tellin' tales?' And he says, 'I swear it, Ma, on the floor at home!'"

"How'd ye come by mouse lips, I wonder?" Caroline, now, her tone as curious as Ursula was feeling.

"Well that bloody cur 'a Lu's. Scruffy --"

The name must have been synanomous with something, for the whole pantry burst out in laughter again. Branyaghe raised her voice above the hubbub.

"I say Scruffy drug a mouse in and ate it all but the lips!"

Ursula opened the door, and the merriment dropped somberly so suddenly that she found herself in complete surprise. Something in her felt almost ... violating. As if she'd had no right to listen in on their story, innocent though it was. She wondered now how the tale would have affected her mother, had she heard it. And she decided it was a safer thing that the servants kept their secret joys just that.

"Mother would like the dessert now," she announced blankly, and turned about. She started back down the hall, quickly again, her mind buzzing. She knew the animosity of her parents and friends towards the lower class; but hadn't just now proven an equal disdain? Albeit one born of repression or fear, but still a disdain. Why, then, hadn't Skittery disdained her? Why had he taken her on the roof ... and kissed her and ... and ... Why?

She shook her head to clear herself of all these thoughts, and brought back to the table a smiling face that apparently relieved her mother. She took her seat quietly and felt Elsie's hand on hers under the table. Something that was not skin touched her fingers, and she turned her hand over, palm up, to recieve the scribbled note her friend had written. Ursula slipped it descreatly onto her lap and unfolded it, using her previously downturned eyes to her advantage and reading over the quick shorthand:

_"What's gotten you?"_

Ursula sighed and closed her hand over the piece of paper, crumpling it quietly. There would be no telling Elsie. Not with her mouth; and besides there was no trusting her. What was there to be said, anyway, except things that would shame her? Sneaking out of her house, meeting a street boy, going out with him, doing ... unmentionable things.

Why weren't things making sense anymore? She knew it was not better before, when she was only what she was supposed to be; but now that she was the opposite of that, she was trapped as well. Trapped in a world she knew wasn't real, pretending to care for things that could not hold her interest, pretending ... everything, and not very effectively, anyway.

She had to see him again. She had to speak to him and know what he thought did matter, then. If not this entire society she had been brought up to emulate, then what? If not the silk and the forks and the manners and the iambic pentameter, then what? What mattered to him, in his world of dirt and grime and newspapers and bad meals? Had anything ever mattered to him? Because the things that used to matter to her, held no merit. Everything was cold and lifeless as a shadow, and there was only the vivid memory of him and a night on a roof that kept her believing there was anything else in the first place.

Ursula looked up again, and Alfie was gone. She took in a sharp breath, chiding herself with a voice in her mind that coldly enunciated like her mother's. She really needed to start paying attention to dinner, dead though it may be. Her eyes must have reflected her confusion, because Elsie was watching her with shocked amusement. Ursula refused the impulse to shoot her a look and blinked a few times, deciding that Alfie had of course announced his leaving and she had only been too absorbed in her thoughts. She could feel her mother's silver gaze on her implicatively, but she, for the first time, hadn't the slightest idea how she was to respond. Elsie was prodding her visually, and Ursula turned her attention subtlely to the torte that had somehow appeared in place of her meal.

"Mrs. Wellington, if I may be so bold as to request Ursula's and my leave," Elsie spoke up elegantly. Ursula's gaze jerked up to watch her mother, eyes placid but at ill ease. She'd always loved her mother's eyes. There, Ursula was born with her father's boring brown eyes, when her mother had the most striking gaze she'd ever seen on anyone. Up close, they looked like the sky; not the usual radial pattern of other eyes, but with points and what Ursula as a young girl had thought to be cloud-like figures. They usually looked like a gentle, cool afternoon after a morning of rain, but for that one time when Ursula's grandmother had died, and her mother had cried her eyes charcoal and stormy. A hint of a storm seemed to be brewing in those eyes now, but she nodded:

"You have our leave, girls."

Ursula rose from her chair slowly and followed Elsie towards the staircase, but her mother's voice froze her:

"And Ursula."

"Yes, mother?"

There was an agitation she'd never seen before in the woman's gaze. "Be sure to be in bed early. You need your sleep."

She blinked a few times, and glanced back at her mother nervously. "Yes, mother."

She felt Elsie's fingers curl around her palm, and suddenly she was being dragged up the staircase, down the hall, to her room. Her blonde friend shoved her inside and shut the door, whirling about with a devilish grin on her face. Ursula met Elsie's beautiful, glittering eyes reluctantly.

"You!" she whispered, her tone sickeningly gleeful. "You're hiding something."

Ursula sniffed, crossing her arms over her body. "I'm doing no such thing."

Elsie was still watching her with that irritating smile, crossing the room to Ursula's vanity and checking herself in the mirror and patting up a few loose, golden hairs.

"Come now, Ursula, you can't fool me with your pathetic attempts at lying. It's so blatantly obvious. At luncheon the other day, I thought perhaps you really were just under the weather. But twice now? Please! You adore these tedious dinners with Callwell droning on as much as your mother, but tonight? You didn't jump when she said your name, and had the audacity to not even tell Alfie good night when he wished the same to you."

Ursula's fingers froze with the jeweled comb still clinging in her hair, eyes wide. Her jaw was slack for a moment, and she gaped for the words to say. Mercifully, Elsie intervened, her smile growing wider as she spoke:

"You did. It was ... priceless, dare I say it. I'll never forget the look on dear Mildred Wellington's face!"

Ursula sighed, pulling loose the comb and starting at the next pin methodically. Elsie slipped satisfactionally into the chair at the vanity, watching herself still as she began to delicately finger over her sunny-colored locks for pins and combs. She turned her emerald eyes to her friend, and let her eyes go a false, envious green:

"Ah, Ursula. I wish I had your curls."

This conversation had occured at every moment that contained the subject of hair. And, as always, Ursula returned:

"I wish I had your golden hair."

And Elsie would be properly satisfied with her friend's equal envy. She reached for one of Ursula's brushes and began pulling the bristles through her much finer, shining straight hair, pleased with the way the electric light played over its aurum tone. Ursula sighed and crossed over to her vanity as well, picking out another brush with finer bristles and working it gently through each separate lock, to keep the curls from unwinding into a general frizzy mess. She glanced at herself in the mirror, and felt a lump in her throat. For the sake of her own sanity, she had refused herself, on most occasions, the desire to compare herself to Elsie. But if she didn't now, she would think about Skittery, and then she would be lost in thoughts without being revived.

She stared at Elsie a short time, again confronted by the odd way all her features pulled together to just give her a general manner of grace and elegance. Her fine, high cheekbones and long, thin nose. Everything about Elsie was long and thin and narrow. Her eyes were not small, but certainly not round and wide like Ursula's. Her lips were thin and always a lovely pale pink. Everything about Elsie's face was refined, where she ... Ursula looked herself squarely in the eye. She, too, was slender, but her face was rounder than Elsie's, her eyes of course larger and her nose not big, but blunt. Her cheekbones were nothing to envy and rather unprominent, though they had grown more visible with age. Elsie had been crafted to be a perfect-looking lady, but Ursula still looked like a girl, bright-eyed and innocent. If she had one advantage over her friend, it was that she had black eyelashes where Elsie had blonde, but it was the only advantage she could procure.She would trade her eyelashes readily for a definite shade of color on her head. Instead she had only curls, too pale to be rich but too dark to be sunny, and too ash to be the slightest bit red. She had only a color her mother called mousy, that could glint and reflect colors in the proper light, but was never a real hue itself.

Her mother had said more than once that she would be pleased to have such young features when she was older. The ladies had agreed she would be quite striking in her thirties; then turned their attention to pet Elsie's lovely hair and marvel at her beautiful jaw and nose. Ursula shook her head and put the brush down, catching her friend's eyes through the mirror.

"Something's on your mind."

Ursula forced a smile and looked away. Elsie touched her hand, still not quite looking away from her own reflection.

"You can deny it all you like, but I swear there's something different about you."

She swallowed, and looked the blonde in the eye again. "Would you answer me something, if I asked you?"

Elsie grinned, running her hand through her hair. "I have in the past."

Ursula did not smile back. "It might offend you."

Those green eyes sparkled, and her voice lowered as her smile widened. "Then you must ask it, or it will drive me positively mad!"

She took a breath, and stared into the mirror, watching Elsie grow more anxious by the second. She glanced down, retreating:

"Did you and that Jack Kelly ... you never ... What I mean to say is," Ursula's voice hushed to a low whisper that trembled through the still, anxious air between them, "you never spent the night with him?"

Elsie's eyes widened and she hung her jaw at her friend for a full moment of absolute awe. Ursula felt a pang of fear as the young blonde actually turned her face away from the mirror to glare her in the eye.

"Ursula, I'm shocked at --"

For the first time in her life, Ursula interrupted someone: "I don't believe it of you, Elsie. I just ... I must know. Since you are seeing him and engaged to Alfie besides -- Elsie, you've asked me to be your Maid of Honor, and I can hardly stand at the front of a church beside you if you have allowed another man ..."

A slow, forgiving smile began to spread across Elsie's face, and her entire body relaxed. She rest her hand over Ursula's, and breathed a relieving sigh.

"Well that is quite noble of you, I must say. But, really, dear? Jack Kelly? What kind of harlot do you take me for?" though her eyes were dancing with amusement. Ursula forced a smile, and felt a stinging sensation sing through her gut. _Harlot._ Even Elsie French would deduce her as a harlot if she knew of her and Skittery, and Elsie ran about with newsies.

Her friend stood, a look of true worry crossing her face as she touched Ursula's cheek sympathetically. "Oh, my, you really have worried over this, haven't you? Darling, it's nothing to be concerned about. You worry for me, and I adore you for it, but please, Ursula. I've already got a mother for that. Do you worry over losing me?"

Ursula glanced up, barely masking her disgust with a veil of utter disbelief. How was it any person could be so egotistical? What reason would she have for caring what Elsie did -- and _lose_ her?_ Lose_ her? To the end of her days, there would be no escaping her. Every party, every luncheon, every dinner would contain the lovely Mrs. Vanderbilt plaguing her with her absolute superiority. Her pretty hair and her pretty eyes and her ridiculous, pretty nose. Honestly, how could a nose by pretty in the first place? It was a nose, and probably the least attractive member of any face. But there it was on her face, set in her pretty face. And she would have pretty children after her pretty wedding and everyone would marvel _how very pretty _she had made her home. She'd be a pretty little bride with a pretty pink blush over those amazingly _pretty_ cheekbones because that night, for the first time, in her pretty little wedding bed --

But she swallowed her seething and shook her head. "I'm not losing you, Elsie. We shall always be friends."

And suddenly Elsie had wrapped her arms about her, and held her in a sugary, false little hug. She released her, smiling, and turned about, pulling her hair over her shoulder.

"Will you get my buttons, Ursula? I am sorry that this is to be our last time to stay over as friends, to whisper late into the night, long after everyone else is asleep. But I'm glad we are friends. Will you let me be the Maid -- oh, dear, I'll be a Matron -- of Honor in your wedding?"

Ursula took a breath, and began to push the buttons from their loops. "I won't be married."

Elsie glanced over her shoulder, looking shocked, but her friend knew the very idea of Ursula growing to be an old maid delighted the soon-to-be Vanderbilt bride.

"Oh, you shouldn't say such things, Ursula. Of course you'll be married."

Ursula sighed again. "Do you know what I wish, Elsie?"

"What?"

"I wish I was quite old right now. I would think there is little burden, being widowed and old."

Elsie laughed aloud at her, examining the ends of her locks. "You are such a funny girl, Ursula. And the oddity is, I think you're quite right about that. Though I wish to never be old. I would rather have these burdens than be alone."

And Ursula decided that summed up most everyone at seventeen.


	12. Tearing At The Seams

* * *

_Tearing at the Seams_

The oxygen was burning in Skittery's lungs like a dry desert wind (not that he was exactly acquainted with desert winds, but he assumed it had to be something like that), but he kept running, the docks now in sight. He took another deep breath that made his throat feel like smoke and forced his arms and legs to pump harder, faster. His blood was like kerosene, his muscles like jelly, but he kept pushing forward, the slight breeze of the breaking morning becoming like a harsh, whipping wind against his face and hair, and for whatever reason, making his ears feel like ice. A headache was pounding through his brain like a steady, heavy hammer, but he liked it. He liked the aching, and the stinging, and the sharp, piercing pain that played like a melody over a throbbing, dull harmony.

His feet touched the wood of the docks, and he slowed to reach down and untie one set of laces, pausing split second to force the miserable leather off of his foot and turn his attention to the other shoe. His bare feet gripped the slimy planks uneasily, but he did not break his previous pace, his fingers running down the front of his shirt and shrugging it off with much less hassle than it had taken to remove his shoes. He kept running, right to the edge, and felt his toes curl around the width of the last plank for a split second before he propelled himself in the air. For a moment it was just him in the breeze, a few feet from the stale surface of water; just him suspended by nothing, in the midst of nothing, and plummetting speedily downward.

He broke through the still surface of stagnate water and was enveloped in breath-taking iciness, his mind actually stopping -- everything screaming to a standstill. There was nothing, and then suddenly everything. He started thrashing, reminding his arms and legs to move, to hurry. Up, up, up -- God, if he didn't make it up to the surface, it'd be the end. Up ... and he hadn't taken a deep enough breath ... And a split second before the final damn, Skittery broke through the frigid waters gasping for air and grappling with his fingers to push his hair from his face, to wipe the water from his eyelashes so he could open them. In the darkness -- in the icy, trembling darkness his breath sounded like a stormy wind, but everything was sweet, painful satisfaction. He was alive -- Hail, Mary, he was alive. He could feel his face breaking into a grin, and tasted the brine sliding into his teeth. Every time it felt like death. Every time it killed his senses long enough to keep the day from being a series of reality's torture devices. Every time he lept into the grave, and for that moment, when he was certain he was going to die, he was forced to focus his mind on something other than her.

"You like pneumonia, Skits?"

The voice scared the hell out of him, and his dark eyes snapped open in spite of the salty droplets slipping into them. He stared up to meet the inquisitive, sarcastic gray gaze that so many found enigmatic, but to Skittery were merely irritatingly sharp devices into his thoughts and bluffs. His grin quickly dropped to a glare, and he slicked his hair to his head nonchalantly. He looked away, starting slowly towards the slimy rope ladder wafting in the otherwise invisible current.

"Ain't it a bit early for you, Spot?"

"For me?" Skittery didn't even give him the satisfaction of eye contact as he gripped the water-logged frays. "I hear tell nothin' short of a fire'd get you outta bed 'afore sellin' time."

The Manhattan newsie snorted, feeling the skin on his back begin to crawl and lurch with trembling as he pulled himself from the water. "What the hell're you talkin' 'bout me sleepin' for?"

He glanced up incredulously, but Spot only shrugged, slipping a cigarette between his lips. "Rosy told me. All she does is blubber 'bout you, and it's boring as hell."

Skittery pulled himself onto the deck and collapsed, feeling every muscle quiver under his skin. Gingerly, he crossed his arms to rest his head on, and watched the Brooklyn newsie with a sardonic almost-interest.

"Yeah?"

Spot snorted, looking out towards the harbor. "Yeah ..."

Skittery's breath was still loud, and he couldn't really recall the last time he'd shaken so badly. If he was trembling any worse, he'd be convulsing ... at least that's what it felt like. It must not have been so bad -- Spot didn't look terribly concerned. Not that Spot Conlon had ever been too terribly concerned about him ever, anyway.

"So you pissed or what?" Brooklyn finally pronounced sharply. Had it been anyone else, Skittery would have said he blurted it out.

He screwed up his brow thoughtfully, twisting his head to look into the other boy's eyes. "Um, no. Am I s'posed to be?"

Spot shrugged, taking a drag and blowing it out into the breeze before responding nonchalantly, "Well, I don't know. Most guys get pissed when other fellas do their dames, but I guess it's no big deal to you."

Skittery pushed himself slowly to a seat, but his spine felt like the reverberation of a thunderstorm, and he could hardly believe he was keeping himself upright, albeit slouched.

"Rosy ain't a dame, she's a whore. And even if she weren't, she wouldn't be mine. So what the hell do I care if you's screwin' her?"

Conlon remained silent, just staring out towards the Atlantic, as if he could see it from where he was at. As if there was something out there. Everyone knew Spot Conlon wanted more than his lifesbreath to be a sailor. That's why he hung around the docks. That's why he was a tough little bastard. He put on a damn good show of owning that end of the streets, of epitomizing the Brooklyn borough to every boy under the age of eighteen. But the truth was, he hated New York. He hated every damn inch of those streets and thought Brooklyn sounded like a dame's name. But the little guys had to be tough, if they wanted to get out; if they wanted to survive at all. Someday, New York City would wake up, and Spot Conlon wouldn't be there. Someday he'd be swabbing a deck and feel more like a king than he ever felt with bloodied fists and a finished fight. It would never make the papers, but it would be the biggest story to hit the newsies in the history of their young lives. Everybody knew Spot Conlon wanted to be a sailor; nobody believed he would be.

"Damn it all to hell," the Brooklyn boy whispered, shaking his head. His tone and far-off eyes led Skittery to assume the opposite fellow was merely speaking to himself of some personal mystery, but suddenly that gaze was upon him again, and the look in its crystalline gray was critical. "Damn_ it all_ to hell."

Skittery's brow furrowed darkly. He was never in the mood for Spot Conlon, and on this particular day he wasn't in the mood for vague pronunciations on his being.

"What?"

"Of all the fellas ... Well, I never thought it'd be you." Skittery opened his mouth to breathe an irritated retort, but Spot interrupted him. "You found a girl."

The frozen marmalade quality of Skittery's body was quickly forgotten in the midst of insult. "You don't think I can find a girl?"

Conlon laughed, a cloud of smoke echoing each guffah. He smiled and shook his head again, letting out a sigh. "Everyone knows you can find a girl, Skits. Everybody knows that. But I never thought you'da been one to fall so hard -- or so fast, even."

Being without words was not a new sensation for Skittery. He wasn't like Racetrack, who could spout a line off of anything, or even Crutchy, who always had something (granted, that something was usually stupid) to retort in his nasally whine. Usually, he felt put in his place, or hot from stewing. But this time, in this instance, would have to be the first in which his wordlessness felt like having the wind knocked out of him. Skittery stared up at Spot, breathing desperately through his mouth.

"Wha --"

"Don't even try denyin' it," Spot intercepted, taking a final drag before tossing the cigarette to the ground. "It's all over yah face. 'Sides, not too many sane folks go jumpin' into the harbor this time 'a year. Fellas at the Lodging House get sick 'a you runnin' the bath water ice cold?"

Skittery turned his eyes away, catching sight of his shirt. He took his time reaching for it -- anything to avoid those too-correct gray eyes.

"Must be a damn high-falutin' broad, if you can't have her. You had her?"

He swallowed difficultly, feeling his face heating with a blush. Not since his first time had Skittery ever felt so self-conscious about sexing a girl. He kept his eyes down as he pulled the threadbare cotton over his damp skin. He cleared his throat and nodded, barely.

"Yeah. Once." His voice barley carried on the breeze. It suddenly occurred to Skittery that this was nobody's business especially not Spot Conlon's. His dark gaze snapped ferally up to the Brooklyn boy, and for good measure, Skittery pulled himself sorely to his feet. "What the hell, Conlon? Don't you got some bottles to throw rocks at or somethin'?"

Spot laughed so hard, a snort escaped his throat. It really pissed Skittery off, and he hadn't been in such a good mood since the Brooky magically appeared on the docks. He took a threatening few steps towards the other boy, and his laughter dropped harder than his smile. Suddenly, those glittering diamond eyes were brooding steel.

"You startin' somethin', Skits?"

Skittery straightened his back. He was a good three inches over Conlon's head with a ramrod spine, and he couldn't help a slight smirk in his position. Spot didn't even blink, but the Manhattan boy wasn't one to miss the instant tensing of his muscles.

_"You_ startin' somethin', Spotty?"

Spot tilted his head to the side. The twitching of his fingers and the sudden grinding of his teeth conveyed the erruption of temper in his small body, but his voice was cool and commanding as an order from a general of a winning battalion:

"Get out 'a my harbor."

Skittery was in no mood for it. Here he was, the only part of his day that wasn't absolute mental anguish, and who but Spot Conlon was there to ruin it. And now what? Now that the Brooklyn boy knew he came here for relief, there would be no getting the docks back. There was nothing he could do, starting tomorrow when he broke through the sweaty, unsatisfying dreams into the dull, lifeless morning. And all because of nosy Spot Conlon; him and his damn "little birds." What a schmuck. What a dirty little snake. Why the hell did he care about Skittery and love and whether or not he'd fallen for a girl? It was none of his business at all. He was just doing it to piss him off. The only reason the little twirp did it anyway was to get a rise out of him, 'cause Spot Conlon was so damn "untouchable." Well the world wasn't made up of snot-nosed kid games and gangs. Conlon could play king with the dumb little boys around him, but Skittery had had enough. He was practically a man now; no, he_ was_ a man now. No mere boy could possibly feel so deeply for another person the way he felt about her -- no awkward pubecent kid could know the torture he suffered without her.

Before he knew what he was doing, the built-up irritation within him took Spot Conlon by the shoulders and shoved him right off the docks, into the shock of cold water below. Skittery turned away in pure satisfaction, meandering nonchalantly down the docks towards his shoes. He'd have to hurry if he wanted to hit Fifth before Mush did. He reached down and gripped the worn leather in his hand just as the Brooklynite reached the surface, sputtering for air and enough curses. Skittery wasn't the type to withhold a chuckle.

"Get out 'a your own damn harbor."

It served the little bastard right.


	13. I Am Drifting In The Deep End

_Author's Note: And ... we're back. Because my class presentation is OVER, so I don't have to work on it anymore!_

* * *

_I Am Drifting In The Deep End_

Ursula had told Maggie she could go for the night. All she wanted was to be alone ... to not feel the presence of other people bustling about. She knew, in her mother's house, that was never entirely possible. Someone was always about to protect every member of the Wellington family from possibly having to lift a finger for him- or herself. But if her parents were going to be at the Davenports' parlor all night, and they were not going to bring her, then she would just as soon be alone in the steam and the overpowering aroma of the lavendar oil Maggie had poured into the bubbling hot bath. She could dress herself, thank you. If she even decided to leave the tub tonight. Maybe she would just lay here, until the steam wafted away and the water went tepid, then slowly cold. Maybe she'd fall asleep in the intoxicating, room-encompassing smell, and slip into the neck-high suds and drown. A part of her thought that would be beautiful. Like Ophelia in ... rats, which play was it? She used to know. She used to know with absolute certainty. But now it really didn't matter. Ophelia could have drowned in the harbor for all she cared, anymore.

This couldn't be healthy.

But it had been two weeks. Two weeks since she'd talked to him, or even caught a glimpse of him. He'd evanesced into the city, and she could feel her own soul dissolving with him. She'd tried to hate him, but she couldn't. Something strong and binding was blockading that emotion, and she didn't understand why. No matter how angry she could work herself up to get at him, there was always a calm, underlying peace that hummed through. An undying sense of ... commitment, maybe? But stronger. Something that bound her to him, so that her anger could never get so hot as to burn through that tie.

Ursula closed her eyes, shaking her head absently. There had to be some way to disentangle him from her thoughts. She used to simply take a lavendar bath when upset, or even occasionally strong tea with a spot of gin. But there seemed to be no cure for him without becoming an absolute lush, which would go over even worse than her present state was. Anymore, it was simply less draining to avoid her parents. The more she was around them, the more she was inclined to conclude them as faux people, and it was better not to have such a view of one's direct predessors, at least while they were alive.

She slid her hands down one leg carefully, testing for stubble. It took Ursula almost a full minute to remember she had been shaved only the night before. Her dark eyes glanced at the closed white-washed door, and she let the tears come. What was going to become of her? If this kept up she'd be in the mad house. She knew her parents were concerned; they talked about physicians in hushed whispers and watched her with sad smiles. Maybe she was mad. Maybe she was positively, out-of-her-mind insane. Maybe --

"Are you doin' okay?" a nervous voice trembled meekly from behind her. Her head twisted quickly to the side, to meet a gaze just as nervous as the voice. Ursula drew in a quick little gasp. By God, she was mad.

"I'm ... no."

Or maybe he'd just climbed through the window. His cheeks were burning red and the cloth in his armpits was obviously wet, and she wasn't entirely sure why --

"Are you ... alright?" she breathed finally. He wouldn't meet her in the eye, and his gaze kept jumping in every direction. He kept jingling some change or marbles in his pocket, and licking his lips. It looked as if it took all his strength simply to tremble out a sigh.

"No," he whispered, and his voice sounded very husky, for some reason. "No, I can't exactly recall a time I felt more not-alright."

Ursula bit her lip, and turned her head back away from him because her neck hurt from straining for his eye contact. He wasn't giving it to her, anyway.

"I haven't seen you on Fifth Avenue."

"That's 'cause I haven't been on Fifth." It sounded like a retort, and she wondered why. Ursula didn't know what to say, so she determined to remain quiet. It felt like an eternity before:

"You know ya're practically never alone?"

She twisted around to look at him, and this time he was staring back. She almost smiled.

"Yes."

He looked away again, as if the answers to the unasked questions would be lying on the pristine white floor. He gazed down at it thoughtfully, talking to it. "Climbing up here's a bitch. All those damn rosebushes. The first time, I thought I was gonna die in them thorns --"

"The first time?"

Skittery met her eyes suddenly, as if startled by her surprise. "You think a fella could make it in one go?"

She smiled reluctantly, reaching a wet hand to smear off the dried tears on her cheeks. "I don't know."

He almost scoffed, moving across the room to stand beside the tub. Her neck was grateful. "You don't know. Well, I made it. So now what?"

Ursula shrugged, glancing down at steam that rose from the water. "You're the one who climbed in my window. What is it you want to say?" For some reason, her voice sounded colder than she meant it to.

Skittery cocked his head to the side, struggling for her gaze. _"You's_ the one who looked for me on Fifth. What do you got to say?"

She took a deep breath, still staring stubbornly down at the bath. "I just ... Do you have any ... any feelings for me, Skittery?"

The silence that followed was anything but reassuring. As a final surrender, Ursula looked up to meet him in the eyes, and realized that's what he'd been waiting for.

"Ursula," he breathed very slowly. "You's the _only_ thing I feel anymore. I can't eat, I can't think, I can't sleep, I can't feel nothin'. I thought I died that night. And seein' you ... God, just seein' you's got to be the only gratifyin' thing I got in the past couple weeks."

She was trembling. In the heat and the steam and the relaxing waters, she could feel herself jittering. Without a second thought she held out her hand to him, and he reached for it, but stopped. Ursula met his eyes in confusion, and he pursed his lips cautiously. Without a word, he held out his hand, palm up, and prodded her gently to do the same.

The difference was shocking. She gulped slowly, studying his long, knobby fingers and the thick callouses on his palms. She could see every fissure in his skin because some kind of dark grime had forced its way in. There was a wart on his middle finger and a dried, heavy cut across his thumb. His hand made her own look completely unused, and she noticed now that he was staring at her long, slender fingers with their clean, long nails. He was awed by its translucent whiteness and simple ... naivety, almost. Her hands looked as if they'd never known ... anything.

They looked up, and in the exact same moment, their eyes connected. It drew a shuddering gasp from Ursula, but Skittery only sighed dishearteningly.

"You know, not seein' you, Ursula, that was torture. But seein' you and not bein' able to touch you -- well, that's gotta take it all."

He shook his head, turning to go, but without another thought she had taken hold of his hand. He turned slowly back, his gaze unwavering from their hands uncertainly. Impulsively, she tightened her fingers about his for a moment, if for no other reason than reassurance.

"Please stay with me," she barely whispered; her voice trembled, but her tone was certain.

His fingers went slack in her hand. He spoke to the window. "I can't."

She tugged at his arm gently, bringing his gaze back to her. "Why not?"

Skittery slid his hand from her grasp, rubbing his face wearily. "You of all folks oughtta know," he mumbled, more to himself than her. "Look at you, Ursula. Look at you. You think I ever sat in a tub like that? You think I ever been clean like that? That world through that window out there -- most people don't live there, okay? I don't live in your world, alright? And I can't stay with you. I can't ... damnit, just look at you. And look at me --"

Without even the hint of a warning, he pushed his suspenders off of his shoulders and tugged off his shirt. He stared down at himself critically.

"Look at me, Ursula. I haven't eaten in three days, alright? I been too busy avoidin' Spot Conlon. I got dirt in places I didn't even know I had 'cause I haven't had a real honest-to-God bath in about a month." He reached up and scratched his head furiously. "And you know what else? I got lice. I'm actually fuckin' disgusting, and you's sayin' you want me to stay with you? And do what? Climb into the tub with you?"

Ursula stared at him for a long time, counting the ribs she could see, the scars that were either very dark or very light from healing wrong, and she could feel her eyes welling up. She took a breath, making sure she had his eyes and attention.

"I think you're beautiful," she told him quietly. His eyes were clouded with confusion, and something she couldn't read, but she continued steadily. "And I want you to stay with me."

Skittery ran his tongue over his lips thoughtfully, before muttering something she didn't understand and pulling off his shoes. "I stink like hell," he threw out appologetically.

"You're getting into a bath," she reminded him with the slightest hint of sarcasm. He looked up, catching the sparkle in her eyes and smiling for the first time since he'd entered her presence.

A gasp caught in her throat as he nonchalantly unbuttoned his pants, and he glanced up at her without a thought to his almost-derobed self. "You keep that up, Miss Wellington, and you'll be a regular street smart-ass."

Ursula leaned back against the tub as Skittery placed a hand on either side of the porcelain bath, grasping the lip for balance. He leaned down and kissed her, once, before throwing a leg over and easing himself into the tub. His face was only inches from hers, and she heard him take a quick, startled gasp at the heat of the water. She pulled his neck down slowly and met his lips in a way he didn't want to end immediately. Yet it was Skittery who stopped the embrace while she struggled for breath. He stared at her with those heavy, dark eyes, and murmured in a tone only she could hear:

"Did it hurt ... the last time?"

She looked back at him, and nodded slowly, her face brushing against his with that small movement. He breathed a sigh against her cheek.

"I'm real sorry 'bout that. It won't this time."

Ursula wrapped her arms around him, pulling him closer to her. She heard the water spill out of the tub and trickle to the floor. His lips and tongue were searching her neck, and her whole body was shaking beneath him.

"I wouldn't care if it did," she managed between quickened breaths. He turned his face around to look her in the eye again.

"Ya know we can't keep this up forever."

Ursula touched his face gently, running her fingers along his jawline thoughtfully. "We're mortal, Skittery. It's not as if we have forever, anyway."


	14. Holding Onto Your Hand

_Author's Note: So, despite it all, I consider the passed two chapters a little ... weak. Like, I was looking at the chapters before them, and the previous two or three had like 3,000 words, and the last two only had around 1200. This bothers me because ... pretty much it means I don't think I'm spending enough time describing things. So hopefully this one will make up for it. Thanks for reviewing! And, just for everyone's information, we're at the second to last chapter -- whoo! One more to go. I know, it's pretty sad ... but there's a sequel, so no worries!_

* * *

_Holding Onto Your Hand_

Skittery didn't know they could make cloth so soft, or so white.

He couldn't even imagine sleeping in a bed like this night after night. Or, rather, he couldn't imagine ever waking up from a bed like this. Sleep was actual a rather plausible idea, especially right now, after being in that bath, making love to her. It made his stomach pang guiltily. This is how it should have been. In an enormous four poster, or in that big, porcelain tub. Just not up there, on that dirty roof, in that dirty end of town, outside ...

He looked down at her, lying on her stomach beside him, and winced. With a slow, gentle hand, he ran his fingers over the darkening spots on her shoulders and back. Her skin twitched uneasily, and she glanced up at him with those sweet, forgiving eyes. She reached over and took his hand in hers, entertwining her fingers with his.

"Don't worry about that."

Skittery cleared his throat uneasily. "I'm real sorry, just the same."

She smiled, propping herself up on one elbow and giving his hand a squeeze. He found himself smiling, too, but only for a moment. She was watching him, but he wasn't looking her in the eye. He knew he was making her nervous, and he wished he knew how to make her ... not. But at the same time, somebody had to be the realistic one, and for some odd, uncharacteristic reason, it wasn't Ursula. He pursed his lips, and waited. Maybe she wouldn't ask him. Maybe he'd overestimated how much she could see in his face.

"Skittery ... What's the matter?"

Maybe not.

He swallowed, and looked back at her with ungrounded determination. "I think I should go."

Her brow furrowed, and she pushed herself to a seat. "Why?"

Skittery snorted, and despite himself he could feel a tickling irritation growing within him. " 'Why?' Ursula, I don't know if you noticed, but I'm damn broke. And you's -- you's sleepin' on a ... a cloud or somethin'."

She glanced at the bed, her face still lit with confusion. "You could sleep here as well --"

It made him laugh out loud. "No, as a matter 'a fact. I can't sleep here. If I worked for the next hundred years, maybe I could sleep here. But I can't."

Ursula was staring into his eyes in a way he knew he could not look away from. She was searching for an answer, or honesty, or ... just something. Whatever it was, he would damn well let her look for it. Everything was so very silent, except for her breath ... And he wanted to take it back, suddenly. Appologize and beg her to forget it. He wanted to tell her he'd stay as long as she wanted -- that he'd never leave this room if she willed it so. But he couldn't talk -- couldn't even try to talk -- until she'd found whatever it was she needed from him.

Finally, she breathed a sigh.

"You want to end it," she murmured in a voice he thought was very brave. Skittery shook his head vigorously, clinging to her hand desperately. He opened his mouth to protest, but he could not find his words. He was gaping like an idiot, and she was just looking at him blankly -- what happened to the feeling in her eyes? -- waiting for something.

Skittery took a breath, but could find no words suitable for its use. He let out a defeated sigh, his fingers going lax against hers.

"I thought ..." He wished he could say it louder, but his throat felt as if it would collapse if he tried anything above a whisper. "I thought this was just goin' to be a thing, Ursula ... I thought ... What I'm sayin' is, this isn't just some stupid thing I'm doin' for the hell of it no more. This is real to me. And I can't ... I just can't do it if I know you ain't gonna be mine always. I can't do this if you's gonna be knittin' clothes for grandkids that ain't mine."

He let out a shaking breath, feeling as if everything in his heart had been poured out before her eyes like wine from a barrel. Skittery knew, that even if he were to stand in the middle of Madison Square Garden completely disrobed, that he would never feel so naked as he did just as he finished speaking. He watched her, hoping and holding out for ... something he was unaware of. And now he was the one waiting ... and it scared him that he could read nothing in her eyes. It frightened him worse than any other fear he had known that she could shield her emotions at the precise moment that he was allowing his to be completely revealed.

Skittery forced a nervous smile, feeling his fingers trembling in her hand. "Ursula, I love you."

She took in a quick little breath, glancing away from him of a sudden, and he felt something painful thud at the bottom of his stomach. Her eyes fleeted up to his a few short times. He would have given anything -- not that he had much to offer -- just to know what odd thoughts were whirling in her head. She swallowed and gripped his hand in a manner he found very despairing, and hoped she wasn't trying to reassure him with that grasp.

"Skittery --"

"LaFyette," he blurted, without really knowing why. "My name -- I mean my real one -- 's LaFyette."

A smile jerked over her lips for almost a second. "LaFyette, I care about you very much -- more than anything -- I've hardly survived these past two weeks; I honestly thought I was going to die --"

The corner of Skittery's mouth drooped with a frown. Why wasn't she ... ? Well, he understood all she was saying. It was a relief to know they had shared in their lonely tortures without each other -- that she was not cold to him. But her voice, her quick words and fleeting glances ...

"Ursula," he managed very slowly so as to paint the image of measure instead of the ruin he was feeling just about then, "do you love me?"

She forced another almost smile. "You're the greatest thing I've ever know, Sk-LaFyette. The best thing that's ever happened to me ..."

Skittery felt all of the muscles in his body go tense, his stomach knotting ... And then it wasn't nervousness any more, or hurt or even pain. No, singing loud and raucaus above all of it was an electric red anger that made him force his fingers from her hand and pull him from the bed. Why didn't she say it? Why wasn't she saying it? Wasn't that all dames wanted to hear in the first place? Every girl -- every single, worthless, unmemorable other girl before her had only begged him for his love -- and if not that, than the phantom of it, so that they could feel complete. And yet now -- with her; with the only one he'd ever felt so absolutely cadaverous without -- his heart was being primly, politely, with all etiquette and due respect, handed back to him. A hellish _damnit_ burned through his spine, to the ends of his nerves and boiled his blood. _Damnit, damnit, damnit, damnit._ Why did she not love him? _Why?_ Was he so unworthy? Then why would she coax him into her bath? Was he just another available trinket to be used at her leisure like every other superfluous, frivolous, ridiculous thing in this room? Well damn her. She could go to hell and take that bath and these sheets and that roof and the moon and her eyes ...

No. He was mistaken, somehow. He must be. Taking a deep breath, he interrupted her babblings again:

"Do you love me?"

Ursula met his eyes, her bottom lip quivering uncertainly until she clamped down on it with her teeth. He could see tears in her eyes but was in no mood for them. There would be no appology, no sweetened words or sympathetic looks to serve as his antedote, save three simple syllables ...

"I don't believe in love."

His brow furrowed, and his mind went blank in the buzz of confusion swarming within his head. It took him several minutes to find sense enough to speak, and even then, the best he could combat with was a stuttered:

"Y-you're a liar."

She was breathing very quickly, but he didn't care. He didn't care if she was scared or hurt or frightened or _oh so very sorry._ There was only one thing that mattered; but one thing in this whole gray, dismal, rotting world that made a damned difference in the end, and here she was -- sitting in a snowy white bed with her hair drying in a halo of curls about her face, telling him she didn't "believe in" it.

Ursula was shaking her head, begging for the chance to testify, but Skittery had frozen his heart into cold apathy to keep from losing it in this dark and inglorious hour. He was standing, and she was staggering for the words. He was moving about the room, and the adjacent room, gathering his things methodically as she kept trying and trying to explain some ridiculous theory that didn't matter to him. Nothing mattered, if she didn't love him -- least of all her reason for not. He didn't know how he managed to get dressed, and in every bitter memory of that night, he could not explain how he reached the yard, or the street, or his cheap side of town. The only clinging remembrance, besides a distinctly corpse-like response from his innards, was that of the cool air outside, and how absolutely frigidly cold the breeze felt against his still-damp hair and head. He hated such an iciness -- brittle enough to sting but too weak to numb -- and he hated how frozen those first tears felt against his face.

They came like a rain -- like the gentle shower just before an endless, raging night of storms. He felt the foreign trickle sliding down his cheeks, building in his throat and choking him ... He wanted to be choked to death, but he wanted to scream, and the former fell sacrificially for the latter. He leaned against something hard and cold and sobbed, letting his lungs contract with whimpers because he didn't care if he was a man or not tonight. Tears were flooding down his face in a thousand different rivers, soaking his neck and seeping into his collar. He gasped and cried out, hearing his own breath echo loudly against the unsympathetic brick walls that surrounded him. His spine felt like it was rippling and he couldn't keep his hands steady when he tried to wipe the onslaught of tears from his face. He was begging the merciless sobs for breath ... and suddenly he was slamming his fist into the wall ... slamming both fists into the wall.

He heard a loud crunch but he beat the brick with his hands, every blow tearing a new stretch of skin; every little cut pouring a stream of blood from his knotty, veinous fists. He yelled something indistinguishable, another sob gripping his throat in its cruel fingers because none of it hurt so badly as her sweet, cowardly voice telling him faintly that she didn't believe in love.

Well maybe he hadn't, either. Maybe he'd thought it was just another stupid chastity belt broads slung across their waists to prevent or limit passage. Maybe he'd thought fellas who bogged themselves down with one woman for life had no balls, and maybe he'd thought the idea of being willing to give up the little he had to another undeserving person was illogical and stupid. Maybe he'd seen bitter wives and drunk husbands and neglected kids and thought reassuringly, "Thank God that'll never be me." And maybe all that was true.

But if love had never before existed -- if Juliet had just killed herself because the story was shit if she was alive, and if Antony dared Rome because he wanted to rule Egypt all to himself -- then Skittery knew it was existing tonight. The sweet whisperings, the long kisses, the passionate moments alone that the world raved and renowned -- he realized now was only half of love. Love was agony, and pain, and heartbreak. Love was the deepest, sharpest, hottest cut he'd ever felt. Love could not only exist with her -- but it lingered without her, as intense a feeling as any deep, mutual stare; as thrillingly breathtaking as any prolonged kiss.

And it suddenly occured to Skittery that being outside of her presence would not make that go away. Breaking his knuckles on a wall would not distract him from the stinging pain of loving her. There would be no end to it. Growing bitter at her memory was not hating her. A sharp affliction when thinking of her was not a feeling of resentment. This awful, eternal throbbing in his chest was here to stay, because he was without her, and in love.

Skittery didn't know what do to. The idea of wrapping his hands seemed rather ordinary in the midst of his subcharacter display. He'd been passionate, and prone to temper before, but never to this point. His entire head was buzzing, and he pretended he was crazy as he trudged mechanically towards the Lodging House, hearing his blood splatter on the gravel beneath his feet.


	15. You Are All I Need

_Author's Note: So suddenly, it's over. And you're thinking, "How ...?" Last chapter just ... Well, we all know, don't we? But I hope you're all pumped for this, because I'm about to do something I've never done before -- ended a romance happily. It's actually crazy-sad that I've never done that before. But anyway, enough about me. So, take it away, Skits._

_Skittery: Ah'right, so I'd **personally** like to thank **Kid Blink's Dreamer, SilverConlon, time is a waste of life, Crazy Pink Hat Girl, Garen Ruy Maxwell, madmbutterfly713, LateOrliBloomer, StormShadow21, elleestJenn, Autumn-Park, splashey, kkkkristen, GypsyRuth, kaitins, NewsieGirl Poet, LuckydaNewsie, Orange Socks and Polka Dots, Contorce, The Mayor's Daughter, Teepot, shot to pieces, SusieMinnesota, xoborogrlxo, Midnight, spade, kristen, ella eternity, SakiSaki, Purple Rhapsody, AnnieTheNewsElf, ShitteryGitUp, H.C. Wright, Leslie, Skittery's bad mood, Air, pennylayne, Spadey, Brownie/Melody, hobbit1400, Written Sparks, Reffy, Maverly, Cyanne 76, moseph, Dreamless Mermaid, XxDarkness of InsanityxX,** and all them slower-type folks that come across this later and drop a line --_

_Brunette: Skittery, don't call them "slower-type folks"!_

_Skittery: Well you'd have to be an idiot to pass up anythin' this good with ME in it._

* * *

_You Are All I Need_

Ursula Wellington really didn't believe she'd wake up in the morning.

She felt an earnest surprise when the sunlight pressed softly against her eyelids and coaxed them open to the bright, benign room. As she pulled herself to a seat, the entire world came back to her in a very real, very sudden wave. Her mind was conscious, and a voice from the dark depths of her sleep spoke the only words that would have made any sense then. _Get him back._ How had she managed to fall asleep after that? What had happened in the midst of the confusion and false certainties that had melted away the moment he disappeared through the window? Why was she here? _Get him back._ She pulled herself from the bed, her breath quick and nervous as she rushed to ready herself. Her mother would chide Maggie for not being there to assist her, but it made no difference. Nothing made any difference. Except ... _Get him back._ She glanced over the corners of the room, her self-criticism muting for a moment as she studied all the little things -- all the little, ridiculous pretty things she'd never paid much mind to. The cherubs fixed into the frame of her mirror; the shade of green in the watercolor on her wall; the way the sun glinted off the silk dress peeking from her boudoir. She gazed at each carefully, and the same voice told her, gently, that she was not to see these things ever again.

"That's alright," she whispered back, latching the last button with mild shock. She had been dressing this whole time?

_Get him back._

She was skipping down the steps, neverminding the bustle of life about her -- almost to the door before a relaxed tone questioned her evenly:

"Ursula, won't you sit for breakfast?"

A short moral battle waged in her mind before she briskly surrendered to her mother's wish, stepping quickly back down the hallway and into the dining room. The graceful, mannerly woman that had birthed her sat quietly alone, picking at a wide array of fruits and breads set before her and sipping a weak cup of coffee with lots of cream. Her daughter stood at the other end of the table stiffly, gripping the back of her father's chair for support.

"No. I'm going out, Mother."

The dark blonde brows jumped up her forehead for a moment, and Mildred Wellington set her coffee down precisely on its serving dish.

"Going out. Like that?"

Ursula touched her hair thoughtfully before clearing her throat with more definition than she could previously afford.

"Yes."

Her mother held down a scoff but said nothing, glancing back at the plate to cut a sliver of strawberry for herself.

"I-I am not coming back, either." she continued in a voice she knew was quaking. Those silver-blue eyes flickered up at her with interest.

"Oh?"

Ursula took a deep breath. "Yes. I'm running away."

Mildred tilted her head to the side, looking up at her daughter with a cool, unreadable expression. "And where is it you're running to?"

Her daughter glanced at the door before returning her eyes reluctantly back to her mother's. "The Lower East Side."

No storm was brewing in the gray skies of her orbs; a complex wordlessness overtook them as Mrs. Wellington returned her attention to the strawberry she'd only half-eaten. Ursula stood in confusion, tapping her foot nervously for a moment. Finally, just as the conversation seemed to be ended, she took a few awkward steps from the table -- slowly, just in case ...

"Be home by five -- you need to prepare for Elsie's rehearsal dinner."

The younger woman froze, turning slowly to look back at the table. Her mother was still focused on her breakfast.

"You aren't paying me any heed."

Mildred glanced up, but only for a second. "I am."

Ursula's jaw hung slack with shock for a few gaping moments before she found her words. "I'm leaving, Mother!"

She could hardly believe that a peach could be more interesting than the prospect of her leaving, but her mother had moved on to the next available fruit.

"Do not be foolish, Ursula."

She didn't know how to bring her words to effect. The woman was just sitting there -- not even the slightest bit stirred -- eating breakfast as if her leaving was some sort of childish game that would cease if it was given no reaction. Her spine was tingling, but that voice was in her head again ... _Get him back ..._

"I'm going, Mother, and I'm not coming back here. You know I'm not coming back here."

Mildred looked up, and this time she was staring. Her eyes focused intently just before her brow furrowed and puzzlement lit her gaze.

"Ursula, what happened to your neck?"

With trembling fingers, she touched the tender skin at her throat, and the night flooded back to her. Ursula tried to swallow the dryness in her, waiting for the floor to collapse beneath her feet with each step she took back. She had to go. She had to ... needed to be out of here ...

"I'm going, Mother."

They watched each other for a few seconds that seemed like an eternity. Her simple, deep brown eyes connected with the complex silver points, and suddenly Mildred Wellington was lacking her tranquility. She pulled herself from the table, worry brewing in those lofty gray expansions --

"Ursula --"

But her hand was on the doorknob, and she was outside and running ... running, racing, losing her breath in the urgency and stifling in her anxiety. Her legs were pumping beneath the layers upon superfluous layers of skirt -- she was lifting them off of the ground so that she would not trip. Her eyes were burning and the world spun and blurred and froze all around her. She was the only thing moving and she was running faster, faster, that voice demanding and harsh in her ears. _Get him back._ Nothing was familiar and everything was strange and new and dangerous but she was not stopping, swerving around the growing number of people -- where was she? Not nearly as important a question as, where was he? People, people -- why so many people? She felt her legs losing strength and her lungs grasping for air, reluctantly allowing herself to slow ... slow ... stop. The street was crowded and dirty and foul and the people about her were speaking a dozen languages she couldn't understand. Dark glances were directed at her curiously, cruelly, indignantly, and she wanted to cry out from hopelessness.

She slid into the first alleyway she could see and leaned against the wall because otherwise she would hit the unforgiving gravel with a thud. She was nothing and no place and her heart was only still beating because of one thought -- one driving determination that she could not follow because she was lost; because she was cold in the sunlight and wanted to be out and away ... But what place was there for her? He was not here. _Get him back ..._

"I'm trying, damn it!" she shouted, her voice cracking hoarsely. She covered her mouth and tried to swallow the growing sob, squeezing her eyes shut against all that was dark and cold and meaningless. Her nails dug into the mortar between the brick, and she tried to lean into it harder -- to sustain herself because her legs were going to collapse, and she knew it. She wanted it all to end; and she hated that sheet and her lack of will and the sweet, slow memory of his smile that had made her fingers loosen and the knot about her neck go slack. She hated that he was out there, somewhere ... because as long as he was, she could not find the strength to end her life. If he was there to be found, then she could not rest until they crossed paths again -- she had to find him, she had to get him back.

Her grip broke suddenly and she found herself slipping ungracefully towards the ground -- knew she was about to hit the gravel any moment and scratch up her palms. She threw up her hands quickly in an instinctive hope not to land on them, but she was suspended. The ground was still below her, and she was still, barely, standing. It slowly occured to her that something was about her waist, and something was supporting her weight that was not her feet, and Ursula turned her head difficultly to find out what, exactly, that something was.

"Ya're fallin'."

And before she could even fully comprehend that statement, he was gently readjusting her center of gravity for her. He released her and she was standing on her own. She turned about and looked him in the eye, feeling her heart stop in her chest and the words she'd begged God for the chance to say to him remote and hidden from her. Her mouth was hanging open and her mind was completely blank, and it made her so very, very frustrated because he was waiting -- he was holding out for her to say something.

That almost-smile (but mostly a smirk) tugged at the corner of his mouth, and when he crossed his arms she noticed the cracked, ugly scabs that covered his knuckles. In the depths of his eyes she could see a held-off explanation for why it was he was here at the precise moment that she should lose her footing. That didn't matter. She could feel, pounding through every nerve in her body, that nothing mattered ... Nothing could ever possibly matter until she said -- until she opened her mouth and told him --

Her mouth was already open.

"I love you," she blurted finally, a color flushing her cheeks. Somehow, she figured that couldn't have quite been dime-romance material. But he wasn't grinning -- not yet, and she wasn't in his arms as he kissed her a thousand times and told her he loved her, too. This wasn't the fairytale she'd been lead to believe it was supposed to be. He was still just standing there with his arms crossed, watching her with skeptical eyes.

"You don't believe in love."

Ursula shook her head fervently, taking a few steps towards him. He did not retreat, but he did not reach out to her, either. "No, no, I was wrong -- I do, Skittery. I must believe in love -- you're here and-and ... and my mind is working --"

His brow furrowed curiously as he reached a hand up to rub his chin. "That's the craziest damn thing I ever heard."

She smiled nervously, reaching with plaintive fingers for his hands. He let her take them, but did not grasp them back. "Does everything have to make sense?"

He was looking at her, searching her eyes and then -- he was smiling, and suddenly she was wrapped in his arms and she didn't know how or why or when but everything was where it was supposed to be. He was holding onto her desperately and she never wanted to release him, ever. His face was buried in her shoulder and she could feel his fingers gripping her back and all she could do was let the tears leave her eyes because it was evident, in the necessity of his embrace, that she had hurt him as badly as she had tried to hurt herself that night.

"I wanted tah die without you," he murmured against her skin, his arms wrapping her even more tightly against himself. She gasped for breath but held onto him even closer.

"I tried to," she whispered, her voice croaking between the sobs that had taken her over. "Why did you leave me? Why did you ...?"

He pulled his face from her body, bringing his eyes to look into hers emphatically. "Don'tcha ... don'tcha see why, Ursula? I had to go. I had to be here, waitin' ..."

Her brow furrowed with confusion. "Skittery, I don't understand --"

The newsboy jerked his head up, and she followed his motion up the rather unmemorable brick to the ornate wooden crowning at the top. A gasp caught in her throat -- it was so high ...

"I told ya ... I promised --"

Ursula swallowed, looking from the building back into his wide, simple eyes. The absolute seriousness in them surprised her, and, ironically, brought a smile to her face. She touched the side of his face, tilting her head to the side:

"You promised?"

Skittery hung his head a little, but quickly brought it back up. Embarrassment really never lasted for long, at least for him. "I promised I'd catch you if you was fallin'."

A wide grin broke across her face, and she indulged the desire to kiss him. She leaned back slightly to look him fully in the eyes. "You've been holding onto me all along."


End file.
